DULCE ET DECORUM EST
by Minisinoo
Summary: Sequel to FINDING HIMSELF.  In a time of war, how does a crippled man feel when he's the one left behind?  There are battles fought with fire and magic, and battles fought in the hearts of men. Cedric!Lives AU, C/Hr
1. Storm Coming

**NOTE BENE:**

_Dulce et decorum est_ - the sequel to _Finding Himself_ - was never fully finished, although the bulk of the story IS complete, and there's a final "chapter" detailing how it was meant to end. Only a couple chapters were left.

Please don't write to ask if I'm going to finish it. The answer is "no," which is why I gave the ending. As noted, the bulk of the story (and anything significantly different from the way Book 6 ran) IS complete, and part of why it was never finished is that it would have differed very little from the book, and I was running out of steam due to time constraints, et al.

I have retired from writing fanfiction (at least for the foreseeable future). That said, I'm finally getting a copy of the sequel up on FF-net. Please note the original dates back to 2009/10. Because I'm retired, I don't necessarily respond to reviews, but I do still receive and read them, even if it's some weeks (or even months) after they've been left. **Feel free to leave comments, and please accept my thanks in advance as I am unable to reply.** There are eBook versions not only of this and _Finding Himself_, but a variety of other novels, including the other "Cedric Lives" series, _Aorist Subjunctive_, available online, and all my X-Men novels. FF-net won't permit URLs to be included, but a link is available on my profile page to the eBook library where they can be found.

Additionally, this novel is rated "**adult,**" same as _Finding Himself_. Action takes up immediately where _Finding Himself_ ended ...

* * *

><p>No sooner had Cedric turned from bidding Harry goodbye for the summer at King's Cross Station than he was handed a very official-looking parchment by a young man dressed (badly) in Muggle clothes trying to make his way through the crowd to catch departing students and their families. The young man thrust a second parchment at Hermione. "Be sure your mum and dad see them, kids." And he hurried off. Cedric glanced down curiously.<p>

**Issued on Behalf of  
><span>THE MINISTRY OF MAGIC<span>**

**PROTECTING YOUR HOME AND FAMILY  
>AGAINST DARK FORCES<strong>

_The Wizarding community is currently under threat from an organization calling itself the Death Eaters. Observing the following simple ..._

But Hermione was shoving the parchment into her pocket, muttering, "Put that away _before_ mum and dad see it."

Cedric looked up. "Hermione, don't you think it's time to -"

"No. I don't."

They had no opportunity to discuss it because both sets of parents had spotted them and were making their way over - and seeing his mother, Cedric forgot about the leaflet. An accusation had been burning in his mind ever since Hermione had told him on the Hogwarts Express that she'd lost the baby even before Dolohov's curse had struck her during the fight.

_"You knew she was pregnant. And you knew that destroying that painting would make her lose the baby."_

Unfortunately he wasn't able to confront his mother immediately as the evening was already mapped out, the Grangers having invited the Diggorys back to their house for dinner and drinks. By the time Cedric and his parents returned to Ottery-St.-Catchpole, it was nearing midnight. Yet Cedric still couldn't speak with his mother alone because both parents wanted to discuss the Grangers and Voldemort. "Hermione can't keep them in the dark forever; I'm not comfortable lying to Helen," his mother said as they entered the house and headed for the dining room.

"It's not my decision to make," Cedric replied, defensive because he didn't agree with Hermione's choices either but was worried that if she did tell her parents, they'd pull her out of the Magical world altogether.

"You need to discuss it with Hermione," his mother said, sitting down at the table and calling for Berry to put the kettle on. "I know your worries, but Charles and Helen have a right to the truth."

"She's not of age, mum," he pointed out as he rolled up beside her in the empty spot left for his chair. "If her parents wanted to take off with her to . . . Australia or something . . . they could."

"Given the risk to her, can you blame them?" Amos asked, settling down on Cedric's other side.

"What - you'd _agree_ with them?" Cedric asked.

"I agree that she's in danger. Think, Cedric - sending her out of Britain might be safest for _her_."

Irritated because his father was right, he snapped, "Isn't that letting Voldemort win by default? Exiling our Muggle-borns 'for their own safety'? The end result's the same, isn't it?"

"So you'd rather be justified than have Hermione be safe?" his mother asked, pale brows raised. "And I thought you said you loved her."

"I do love her!" Cedric snapped. "It's the principle of the thing!"

She snorted. "The 'principle of the thing' is the reply one gives when pride overrules common sense."

Pricked and spoiling for a fight, Cedric narrowed his eyes. "You want to separate us, don't you? A Muggle-born _isn't_ good enough for me, after all."

She rolled her eyes. "Oh, yes, I can't abide Muggles so of course I've been exchanging owls with Helen Granger since April."

That stopped him cold. "You have?"

"You assumed the Grangers just _happened_ to have dinner ready for six and invited us over on the spur of the moment? Don't be silly. Helen invited us a week ago. I'm quite fond of her, which is why I dislikelying to her. Nor will I continue to do so. Now that Hermione is home, I expect her to tell her parents, Cedric. Or Amos and I will."

He glared between them but neither seemed willing to back down. "What if they take her away?" he asked, a bit more plaintively than he'd intended.

"Then you write to her until it's safe for her to return," his father replied, albeit gently, patting Cedric's hand. "And be grateful she's alive to write to." He sat up a little. "Besides, it's far from certain they'd leave the country, and we can help protect them. We didn't accept their dinner invitation tonight purely from politeness. Your mother and I set a number of protective charms and wards around their property."

"Do they know that?" Cedric asked.

"It's rather difficult to explain why we're warding their house against the Dark Lord if they believe the Dark Lord died almost fifteen years ago," his mother pointed out. "But it offers some measure of protection in addition to what Dumbledore already provided."

"_Dumbledore_ warded them?"

She eyed him. "Cedric, he'd hardly leave the Muggle parents of Harry's close friend completely unprotected once the Dark Lord returned last summer. But he's been occupied since the attack on the Ministry and asked your father and I if we could visit and set stronger wards in the wake of the Dark Lord's recent, public advent. So I dropped a hint to Helen, and she picked up on it, inviting us to dinner. While we were there, Amos and I set wards. I'm still a bit concerned about their surgery, but I've arranged to meet Helen next week for a tour of the offices - curiosity, you know - and I'll ward that when I'm there. They'll be as safe as we can make them."

Cedric nodded, uncertain why he felt disgruntled; after all, he wanted the Grangers safe. Perhaps it was only that nobody had bothered to tell him these things until now. Abruptly his father dropped hands on the table and pushed himself to his feet. "I need to check the animals before bed. Ced, I'll see you in the morning. Lucy love, I'll be in shortly." He dropped a kiss on her cheek as he ambled out and Berry bustled in with the teapot.

"Master Amos not want tea?" the elf asked.

"Leave the kettle on, Berry," his mother said. "He went to the barn and may want some later."

Berry nodded as she poured for Cedric and his mother, then disappeared back into the kitchen. His mother reached for the sugar bowl and milk jug. Cedric watched but made no move towards either himself. "You knew she was pregnant," he said, wasting no time in getting to the matter that had been preying on him all evening. "You must have known she'd be pregnant after Beltane. And you knew that if you burned the painting, it'd kill the baby."

Sighing, his mother stirred sugar into her tea. "You seem intent on picking a quarrel tonight, don't you? First, as you've apparently forgotten, I burned the painting _in case_ it put you in danger. I wasn't convinced it had, but given your rash decision to chase Harry, I simply couldn't take that chance. It was far from clear what the painting had done or could do. Second, the _curse_ caused Hermione to miscarry, Cedric. The severe internal damage was more than sufficient for her to lose a baby."

Cedric scratched the back of his head, wanting to believe her - wanting to believe that she hadn't known. "Hermione said she felt the bleeding start before the curse hit her. She thinks that burning the painting caused her to lose the child, since the baby and the painting were tied up together." He eyed her. "She doesn't think you knew it would happen, but I think you had to have guessed. You did it anyway."

She sat back in her chair and met his eyes over the rim of the delicate china cup. "I suppose it's possible that burning the painting caused her to lose the child," she said finally, setting the cup back in its saucer, "but Hermione is sixteen. Miscarriages for girls her age aren't uncommon, especially given the extreme stress and physical strain she was under. It mightn't have taken any more than that. You also mentioned that Scott Apparated her side-along, and Apparition is something Healers advise against in the first trimester of pregnancy. Hermione wouldn't have known that, so she may indeed have miscarried for reasons unconnected to the painting."

Cedric's lips thinned, irritated by her rationalizations. What she'd said was well-reasoned, logical - but then, it always was. "Even if you'd known, you'd have done it anyway, wouldn't you?" he demanded. "You'd have traded my baby's life for mine."

"Choose between an unborn child I wasn't sure existed and my only son who'd put himself in deadly danger? What sort of fool do you think me, Cedric? Even if I had known, it wouldn't have been a choice." She sipped more tea. "But honestly, I wasn't thinking of the possible ramifications of Beltane, I was thinking about the fact you'd hied after Harry to London where the Dark Lord was surely lying in wait for the lot of you."

"It was my baby," he said, the unexpected and confusing grief hitting him all over again. "You killed my baby, mum."

Abandoning his empty teacup on the table, he rolled out of the dining room, making his way down the hall to his bedroom where he slammed the door, then levered himself out of the chair to collapse on his big bed. A single candle burned by the bedside, no doubt lit by Berry. He stared up at the shadows it cast, dancing on the ceiling.

His own sorrow puzzled him. Hermione didn't feel it, and he knew - he _knew_ - he wasn't ready to be a father. Not really. Had Hermione not lost the baby, he'd be terrified and stressed trying to cope with an unwanted, unwelcome pregnancy on the eve of war. Yet that war's very proximity, coupled with the end of his school career and his own crippling, left him feeling directionless even whilst he also felt _old_ for 18 - and very mortal. Maybe that was all this odd sorrow owed to**:** the need for a purpose, and the terrifying recognition that he might never see 19. A baby would have meant some part of him continued. Past reason, past logic, past common sense, there was a drive buried deep in the human animal to reproduce itself. The more one's own death came into sharp focus, the more one sought immortality in the next generation. That was the role of a man, wasn't it? Sow his seed, then go out to fight? Protect the family, Queen, and Country?

_Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori._

It is sweet and right to die for one's homeland.

Shifting on the quilt, Cedric turned his head to stare at the wheelchair abandoned in a corner of the room's shadows. He wouldn't be on the front lines protecting anybody. He'd been a fool in the Department of Mysteries, endangering the lives of others because he'd not been able to stay out of it. Worthless in a fight.

What sort of man did that make him?

* * *

><p>"Hey, you."<p>

Hermione jumped and spun around, mouth open a little. Then she was grinning and diving for him, arms around his shoulders, nearly strangling him and earning them both curious glances from others passing on the pavement outside The Leaky Cauldron. Or rather, outside the Disillusionment and Muggle-Repelling Charms concealing The Leaky Cauldron. "How did you sneak up on me? I was looking for you."

"It's a secret known only to blokes in wheelchairs. We slide in below eye-level."

She blew out, still unsure how to take his occasional joking about his disability. "Cedric - "

Growing serious, he pulled her off balance so that she landed in his lap. "Laugh, Granger." Brows drawn in, she opened her mouth to protest, but he put two fingers over her lips to seal them. "Let me joke about it. And I appeared when you were turned the other way, that's all."

"All right." She gave him a shy smile then, adding, "People are watching us."

"Naturally. They're all thinking, 'Wish I was that fellow with the pretty girl in his lap.'"

Laughing now and blushing, she got up. "Come on, the cinema's just a few streets that way." She pointed right. "We can just walk . . . or, er - "

"Roll," he finished, turning his chair and pushing off in the direction she'd indicated.

Over time, she'd got used to the fact that most pavements weren't wide enough for her to walk beside his chair if others were traveling in the opposite direction, so she paced behind. But there were rubbish bins and lamp poles and paper kiosks and café furniture in the way, and if most kerbs had lowered ramps at intersections, a few ended abruptly or were blocked so that Cedric had to maneuver his way over them, slowing down those behind. More than once, people pushed past rudely, muttering under their breath. Hermione began to wish they'd taken a cab after all. At least it wasn't hot like it had been last July. In fact, the weather was unseasonably cool, wrapping London in a dreary fog. Yet by the time they'd reached Leicester Square, Cedric's hair was damp and his blue shirt dark with sweat under his arms and down his back.

"Sorry it was so complicated to get here," she said, feeling guilty. " I should have checked the route, not just looked at a map."

"Forget it, Granger." He gave her his 'Don't fret' look, then turned to study the gigantic black granite face of the Odeon Leicester Square. "Wow. You know how to take a bloke on a fancy date."

"I thought your first trip to the cinema ought to be memorable." She gave a little nod of her head. "It's a rather famous place - lots of premieres held here. Er, that's the first showing of a film. Actors and directors and such show up - all invitation only. The rest of the time, it's a regular cinema, but it does have history. That's why we're here on a weeknight - it gets a bit crowded on weekends, especially in summer.

He was just nodding, eyes glued to the grand billboard on the front, advertising the film being shown that evening: _Mission Impossible_. "So what's this film about?" he asked.

"It's from an old television show about a group of intelligence operatives - secret agents - who're given these, well, 'impossible' assignments to insure international security."

"Hence the title."

"Yes, lots of action, and you know, technological _magic_." She winked at him and he laughed.

Hermione had given thought to the film as well as to the cinema. Cedric had seen Muggle movies before when he'd been laid up at her parents' house over the Easter holidays. In fact, he'd used the VCR and televison as tools to learn about the Muggle world, but she'd noticed some storylines were harder for him to follow as he lacked a frame of reference. Ironically, high-tech action films hadn't been among them; the action plot was usually straightforward and he'd neatly categorized the technology in them as "Muggle magic." It had been films on political or social issues that he hadn't understood well - even for subjects she'd have thought he would have been aware of. For instance, he'd known about World War II, the Allies and Churchill, and Hitler, but as footnotes on the Grindelwald War. When Hermione had first read about Grindelwald, she'd immediately tried to contextualize him against the backdrop of Nazi Germany. Cedric tried to contextualize Nazi Germany in relation to Grindelwald's theory of "The Greater Good."

As for the cinema, she'd called the Odeon in advance for wheelchair spaces, as one purchased tickets for specific seats, not general admission. Now, she left him waiting outside the entrance doors while she queued to pick up her reserved tickets, then rejoined him to hand him his. "Now, we go inside and there will be ticket takers. You give them your ticket and they'll let you through. The stalls are straight ahead, although we can stop and buy popcorn if you'd like."

"I want popcorn," he said with a grin. "You promised me the whole cinema experience." He looked rather like a kid at Christmas and she couldn't help but be excited by his excitement.

So they queued up to get inside but once there, the line of those entering intersected that for the concessions, and flocks of people crossed and crisscrossed the wide, shallow foyer, presenting Cedric with a difficult time maneuvering. "We'll get inside and then I'll go for popcorn," Hermione told him.

He nodded, and she concentrated on unobtrusively helping him to make his way through the crowd of hurried film goers, all disinclined to think about the bloke in the chair. "Sorry," became a refrain for him as he tried to wind his way through. Hermione - offended for his sake - wanted to _hit_ people, but he just looked embarrassed so she kept her mouth closed. Once they'd successfully reached their seats in the stalls - upholstered in leopard-skin print, which Cedric found amusing - she turned to go back for popcorn, but he gripped her wrist. "It's all right. Won't the film start soon?" Despite her planning ahead, they'd made it into the auditorium with only a few minutes to spare.

Bending, she kissed him quickly. "If I'm taking you to the cinema, I'm getting you popcorn. The 'whole cinema experience,' remember? And it won't matter if I'm a bit late; they open with commercials and trailers. Do you want salted or sweet?"

"There's sweet popcorn?" He seemed intrigued by that and she grinned at his impossible sweet-tooth. "Sweet, please, then."

Hermione left for the concessions, brows drawn and mood dark. Part of her was angry at how difficult everything was for him, indignant over how others seemed to look past him. Yet another part was embarrassed every time they slowed down others, or took up more than their 'share' of space. But a secret part was simply irritated at all the extra plans required. She'd had to allow twice as long to reach the Odeon as she might have if going with Harry and Ron, yet even so, they'd barely made it in time - without waiting for popcorn. Buying snacks _would_ make her late. It was bloody _inconvenient_.

She felt awful for thinking so, but there it was. If she might blame a city ill-prepared to serve the handicapped, that didn't change the reality - Cedric's reality for the rest of his life. She couldn't say wizards were any better, even if magic eased the way. The strategizing required just to see a film made her understand why so many of the wheelchair bound simply didn't bother - easier to wait and rent it on video when it came out. Returning, she settled in beside him, handing over his tub of popcorn and drink, all the edge of excitement rubbed off by the sheer _trouble_ of it all. She was glad of the dark, which hid her swipe at the sudden sting of tears, and wondered why she was so upset. _She_ wasn't the one in the chair. Cedric just seemed glad of the adventure whilst here she sat, drowning in the sharp, unhappy realization that a date out couldn't be spontaneous or easy. She'd once told his mother that she knew he wasn't going to get better, and she'd wrestled a bit with the recognition that 'not get better' actually meant 'get increasingly worse.' Yet, beyond that, she'd not considered all the ramifications. Going out today, she'd run smack into them. She didn't want to let it affect her but couldn't quite help it. Cedric was stuck with this. She wasn't. She could walk away.

The fact she'd thought any such thing even for a moment horrified her - especially as she'd started seeing Cedric _after _his crippling. Her choice. What sort of selfish bitch was she?

"What's up?" he whispered in her ear as previews cycled through on the screen in front of them, and she felt him reach out to touch her cheek - wipe away wetness.

"I'm all right," she said, not wanting to talk about it right now. Instead, she tried to raise the outside armrest so she could lean against Cedric's shoulder . . . only to find she couldn't. "Dammit!" she snapped, slamming her hand down on the plastic arm in frustration.

He laid a hand over hers. "Move over."

"What?"

"Move over. I don't think anybody's going to take the seat on the other side; the film's starting soon. I'll get out of the chair."

Startled by this simple solution, she glanced at the empty seat to her right. The wheelchair stall had been cleared out next to normal seats in the auditorium rear, and even at this famous cinema, a late matinee for a film that wasn't a new release hadn't been swamped. Shifting her popcorn and drink, she moved over and he levered himself out of the chair into her seat and (in the dark) pulled his wand to "adjust" the left armrest to hold his own drink. Unfortunately, the right arm didn't lift either, and he chuckled. "All that and it still won't move." Another tap of his wand made it simply _vanish_ so he could slide his arm over her shoulders.

"Cedric, somebody might notice," she hissed softly.

"Doubt it. It's dark. I'll put it back before we leave." Mollified, she snuggled down against him, needing the contact, her head resting on his chest. He kissed her crown. "See," he finished, stroking her hair, "not so bad."

She raised her head to look at him as the curtains swept closed on the previews, only to reopen for the feature. "I'm being melodramatic, aren't I?"

He shook his head, the film glow casting blue highlights on his hair and pale skin. "No. And yes, a bit. Think outside the box; you're good at that, my clever girl."

"It's just . . . all these little _things_, you know? Well, yes, of course you know."

He only smiled. "Life is full of little things. Not all of them have to do with the damn chair, either. At the moment, I'm inclined to think on the positives - I've got a beautiful girlfriend who's taking me out for a lovely night on the town, and if I'm a proper gentleman, I might even get a proper shagging later."

Despite everything, his assessment made her erupt in giggles and smack him in the chest before laying her head back on his shoulder. "You're awful."

"So you've said. And as I've said, _you're_ rather physical - not that I necessarily mind, except when you're giving me bruises - "

"SHHH!" said one of the film-goers in front of them, turning her head a bit to glare.

Embarrassed but still amused, and feeling quite a bit lighter-hearted, Hermione settled down into her seat, turning her attention to the screen and picking up her tub of popcorn.

They stayed on their best behavior after that, watching the film with minimal whispers and only a little snogging when things on the screen got slow. She found herself pondering how she might sneak into his guestroom later that night for the aforementioned shagging.

When the film ended, she and Cedric stayed seated as the auditorium emptied enough for him to make his way out. They discussed the film as they exited, and laughed, and debated where to eat dinner as they moved among the early evening crowds and the buskers working the pavement around the square. Hermione didn't really notice inconveniences now. She wasn't under any illusion that the awareness wouldn't return to sour her mood later, but for the moment, life was jolly good, as her dad would say when being silly. Voldemort and the war seemed far, far away.

Hermione had decided to take Cedric to Chinatown, but the fancy restaurant she'd heard about there required reservations and didn't have easy wheelchair access, so they left again, ending at a Wetherspoons pub called _The Moon Under Water _with outdoor seating. It was busy even on a weeknight, overstuffed with young professionals in business dun or people eating out before an evening show at the cinema or theatre. They had a bit of a wait for a table Cedric could access, then pored over the menu before Hermione left to place their order at the bar. To her surprise the busy barstaff spared her barely a glance before asking what beer or drinks she wanted with her meal. She blinked; Cedric might be old enough to drink, but she wasn't. She hesitated - the 'good girl' warring with her natural curiosity - then ordered a pint for them both.

When she returned to their table with the glasses, Cedric's eyebrows rose. "My, my - I don't think that's butterbeer. Not so choosy on the rules these days, Granger?"

She rolled her eyes and sipped her drink. "They didn't ask. I didn't tell."

He just grinned and sipped his own. "They think you're older. You look quite the lovely young woman tonight."

That made her frown and blush, although it was true she'd gone to the trouble of putting on makeup and fighting with a straightening iron in the absence of hair potion. She'd wanted to look older for him.

Finally the barstaff arrived with their meal, but almost out of drink, Hermione fetched them more beer and - not used to it - was rather tipsy by the time they left. Cedric made her walk around with him before heading back to The Leaky Cauldron. "Can't take you home weaving on your feet; your dad would have my _head_." So they stopped for a while near the fountain and she sat on his lap, watching the water fall, sleepy from alcohol. "There are disadvantages to being in the chair," he said softly, sliding arms around her waist, "but some advantages. When the benches are full, you'll always have the comfy option of my lap."

Giggling and happy finally, she pressed her forehead to his and he kissed her, most chastely, on the lips. Bold from the beer, she asked, "You're working hard for that shagging, aren't you?"

"Would you hold it against me if I said 'yes'?"

* * *

><p>Cedric didn't get his shagging that first night at the Grangers; it had to wait for the next afternoon when Hermione's parents were both at work. They spent all afternoon in Cedric's guestroom bed since hers wasn't big enough for them both. They made love and dozed, then made love again, stretching out when done, naked across the eggshell sheets, a bit damp with exertion. That day had come closer to normal July temperatures. Hermione read him articles from one of her Muggle newspapers, pausing now and then to explain things, whilst he licked salty sweat from her skin, trying to distract her. It didn't work; she swatted him with the paper. "We just did it twice in three hours. You can't possibly want sex again."<p>

He shifted his head to close his mouth over one rose nipple, suckling gently. She gasped and he let go. "Try me." He waggled his eyebrows.

"You're insatiable."

"I'm eighteen, of course I'm insatiable."

"Cheeky git. Now listen, this is interesting. Major's public approval rating is in the toilet with all these recent murders and disasters."

"Major who?"

She huffed out and smacked him. "The _PM_, Cedric; you can't be that clueless. The collapse of the Brockdale Bridge? A hurricane in Somerset? Since when does England get hurricanes? We're not living in the Caribbean! It's hardly fair to blame the Conservatives for the weather, but they didn't respond well to the crises."

He left off from his attempts to distract her, instead lifting himself on both arms to look down at her, brushing the newspaper aside. "That wasn't a hurricane, Granger. It was giants. Same thing with that bridge. Voldemort is out in the open now. Nobody's safe."

"_The Daily Prophet_ didn't report that." Her brows drew together and she dropped the paper on the floor beside the bed, turning on her side so that she could spoon up against him seeking comfort. He propped himself up on an elbow to lean over and see her face while she spoke. "But then I don't reckon they're telling us the truth now any more than last year."

"No, they're not," he said, smoothing back her hair and kissing her ear.

"Who told you? Your dad?"

"Actually, it was Shacklebolt - he told the Order. The Aurors know the real truth, of course."

"If he told the Order, are you supposed to be telling me?" The question sounded somewhere between dubious and a bit waspish.

"It's not that sort of secret. And don't be bitchy. You know perfectly well there are things I can't tell you . . . although not any at present, actually." He drew invisible figure eights on the bare skin of her shoulder, not meeting her eyes. "In truth, and after what happened at the Department of Mysteries, I don't think Dumbledore is planning to keep quite so many secrets from Harry."

"I hope not. I . . . well, I understand why he did. Harry wasn't exactly acting mature - but not telling him just made it worse."

"I know. I think Dumbledore knows too. He may be old, Hermione, but he's not omniscient."

She nodded and wiggled back against him. "It's easy to expect him to be sometimes, but I know it's not fair."

Cedric took a deep breath but made himself say, "Speaking of secrets, you can't keep your parents in the dark about all this anymore, poppet. Voldemort isn't in hiding, and he's targeting Muggles and Muggle-borns." She turned her head to glare out of the corners of her eyes. He ignored the warning and pressed on. "My parents put wards on this house, and on your parents' surgery." Now her dark eyes had gone wide and she shifted until she was lying flat on her back looking up at him. "Dumbledore asked them to strengthen the wards he'd put up the year before. Things are _serious_, poppet."

"Don't you think I know that?"

"Well, yes, but - "

"You don't think I appreciate the danger."

Finally, he made himself meet her eyes. "No, I don't think you do. And I've let you. I didn't want to scare you. Last night . . . last night was lovely. I wanted it - to have _one normal evening_ just for us. But we shouldn't have done it. What if we'd been attacked?"

"In Muggle London? Why would they have bothered?"

He leaned closer so that only an inch separated their faces. "Why would they bother? Because you're the bloody brilliant but _Muggle-born_ best friend of The Boy Who Lived! Do you really think they don't know who you are? Trust me, they do. Worse, you dragged off your almost pureblood boyfriend to corrupt him with Muggle nonsense. It would be just the sort of thing Voldemort would love to make an example of - carouse with Muggles, associate with Muggle-borns, and suffer for it."

"How would he have possibly learned about my plans for our date? Or even that we were going on a date? You Apparated there - "

"But you didn't."

"He's not having me followed, Cedric. Don't be ridiculous." But her face looked worried, as if she hadn't really thought of these things before. Cedric hadn't been able to stop thinking about them ever since the argument with his parents, and if he'd deliberately defied his own worries last night, today he felt guilty for taking such chances, even if nothing whatsoever had happened.

"Poppet, you don't know that he's not. Part of the problem is that he strikes without warning - "

She was climbing out of the bed abruptly, arms around herself, but not from modesty. She looked angry and frightened at once. "Why are you bringing all this up now? Don't you think I know it? Don't you think I worry about it, and then try not to be unreasonable? I wanted to have a few days with you and not think about it constantly!"

He pushed himself up as well. "Me too," he said. "Like I said, I wanted it too. I wasn't . . . I wasn't criticizing, not exactly. I'm just as guilty. But you need to tell your parents - "

"What if they take me away?" she practically shrieked, still not coming back to the bed. "What if they force me to leave the country with them? I can't leave Harry, I can't leave you. I want to _fight back_!"

"Shhh," he said, reaching out with his free hand to her. "Come back to bed." After a moment, she did and let him pull her down with him again, wrapping her up in his arms and legs as best he could. "I worry about the same things. But I'm afraid they're more likely to force you to leave if you don't tell them the truth and keep lying to them." He'd been mulling it all over. "My parents have both agreed to come and explain what's a reasonable concern, and what's not, if you'd like. Your mother and mine seem to get along." She wasn't agreeing, but she also wasn't protesting outright. "I think you can pass off what's happened before as not so worrisome, or rather, not as a direct threat. It might be pushing it, but for once, the lack of information in _The Daily Prophet _is to our advantage. It makes last year look less serious than it really was.

"But things have changed, and they're going to find out, one way or another." For the moment, he said nothing about his parents' threat to tell her parents if she wouldn't. No sense in putting her back up. "You'll be seventeen in just two months now - an adult. They can't make you do anything."

But she was shaking her head. "No, Cedric. In their world, I won't be an adult for a whole extra year. If they decided to take me out of the Wizarding world, they won't be paying any attention to whether I'm an adult witch or not. And their law will be on their side."

He smiled faintly. "But you _are_ a witch, and when you're seventeen, the Trace breaks. They won't be able to _make_ you do anything if it came down to force, but I can't see it coming to that, can you? Really? I think they'll be worried - fairly. Everybody is right now. They might even consider leaving the country to protect you, but to force you to leave against your will? Even if they could? I think they respect you more than that. Just like you need to respect them enough to tell them the truth."

"But it's a risk - "

"Yes. It is. That's what happens when you love somebody. Sometimes you have to risk telling them the truth, even if you don't think they'll like it. Like with house-elves." He grinned at her, trying to lighten the mood.

It didn't work; she continued to stare back. "I need to think about this."

"All right." And he dropped it. He'd been just as divided on the matter the week before and had needed time to chew it over on his own without feeling pressured. "Now we'd better get dressed before your parents come home and find us, and kick me out of the house for corrupting their daughter."

She didn't let go of him immediately, but finally sat up again. "I expect they already know."

His stomach clenched. "They do?"

"Well, not _know_, but . . . suspect. We're not children, Cedric, and the Muggle world is more . . . socially liberal on certain matters. Besides, _your_ parents put us in the same bedroom."

"That's my mum."

"And as you said, your mum and mine seem to get along - get along a lot better than mine and Mrs. Weasley ever did, in fact. I like Mrs. Weasley, of course, but she is a bit . . . "

"Old fashioned?"

"Yes."

"But we _are_ in separate rooms here, notice."

"Yes. And we should keep them for appearances, I expect. But if my parents were really all that worried about it, do you think they'd be leaving us alone all day unsupervised? It's not as if we have to sleep in the same bed to use it recreationally." The smile she shot him over one bare shoulder was impish and he reached out to run his forefinger down the length of her spine before she rose to fetch their clothes where they'd been left on a dressing chair. "Don't worry about it, all right? If they walked in and found us, it'd be terribly awkward, but because they're not quite ready to think about the specifics yet." She tossed him his underpants and trousers. "They wouldn't kick you out. They like you."

"Well that's good to know," he said, bending to slip the underpants over his feet.

* * *

><p>The day the Grangers took Cedric to hospital, the weather was again dreary and damp, rain falling in a steady drizzle. He'd agreed to undergo a battery of Muggle tests because they seemed to want it. Personally, he had mixed feelings. Part of him was curious, and perhaps just a little hopeful. Another part wasn't looking forward to being poked and prodded again, and doubted the Muggles could find anything wizards hadn't. Dark Magic simply didn't heal, or didn't heal completely, but he supposed it couldn't hurt nor would it cost him anything. Cedric now had an NHS number and existed for the purposes of Muggle medicine - as long as nobody looked into the matter too thoroughly.<p>

That's why they were at a suburban Muggle hospital on Friday when the day-shift technicians and secretaries were eager to go home for the weekend. As long as his paperwork seemed to be in order, they weren't likely to ask questions.

At least one nice thing about a Muggle hospital**: ** it really _was _wheelchair accessible, unlike the pub they'd been in the other night. If getting to a table had been doable, getting to the toilet - which he'd needed after a couple of beers - had been another matter. It'd been in the _basement_. "Disabled access," yes . . . but only after one had got down a flight of stairs. If not for magic (and nobody watching), he wouldn't have been able to "access" it at all.

When he finally made the transition from crutches to a wheelchair permanently, there would be places he'd no longer be able to go. He'd found that disabled access was usually designed by people who weren't disabled, full of hidden inconveniences or outright impossibilities . . . like a toilet for the disabled down a flight of stairs, or an industrial-sized toilet paper dispenser placed so near the floor, he couldn't reach it without _Accio_. There was "disabled access" and then there was_ disabled access_. Cedric was of the opinion that anybody designing for a wheelchair should spend at least a day stuck in one.

He, the Grangers, and Hermione were met in the hospital lobby by a stout black woman with greying dreadlocks, a big smile, and a white Muggle lab coat with _Dr. Brenda Guest _stitched on the left breast. "Cedric!" she said. "So good to meet you finally." Then she grabbed Hermione and gave her a squashing hug. "You get taller and prettier every time I see you, love. Now, come on, the lot of you, there's a family room just down the hall." She handed Hermione's father a stack of papers. "Charles, if you'll take these to admissions, we shouldn't subject poor Cedric to NHS bureaucracy on his very first visit."

"Quite right," Dr. Granger said, taking the folders and heading off down a hallway to their right.

"Helen, Hermione, Cedric, this way," Dr. Guest said, waving them on down the hall, right, then down another hall. Dr. Guest held the door for all three of them, a casual courtesy that made it less obvious she was accommodating Cedric. Inside, the small room was filled with comfortable furniture in tans and blues and low table lighting. Cedric noticed that one of the armchairs had been backed up against a wall already, leaving room for his chair. Hermione sat on a couch near him, whilst her mother took a seat further away, leaving the chair to Cedric's left for Dr. Guest.

She sat down in it and just studied him for a moment, smile still there. Then she offered her hand to shake now that they were on a level. "I'm so pleased to finally meet another wizard - aside from Hermione here, and Professor Dumbledore."

"You met Dumbledore?" Cedric asked, a bit stupidly perhaps.

"Oh, yes. Very helpful in getting your NHS paperwork all sorted out. Quite a lovely man, very curious. He expressed great hope that Muggle science might succeed where Wizarding healing hasn't. Different approaches, you know. I appreciate people with an open mind."

Cedric just nodded, warming up a bit to the idea now that he knew Dumbledore hadn't thought it completely dodgy.

"I wanted to talk to you here first in case you have any questions. We'll be doing a basic physical, an MRI, X-rays, a neurological exam, and then draw both some blood and some cerebrospinal fluid to test for abnormalities. That latter will be the most unpleasant. Hermione tells me that wizard healing doesn't use needles, so that may be a bit foreign to you -"

"Actually, the healers at St. Mungo's - that's our hospital - took some blood samples. It's not common, but sometimes they use them." Needles didn't thrill him, but also didn't scare him.

She nodded. "Well, I wish I could say that a lumbar puncture feels no worse than drawing blood, but I don't believe in lying to patients." She eyed him over the top of her glasses, face serious. "It's uncomfortable, if hardly excruciating, and you'll have to stay reclining for several hours afterwards. You have the right to refuse, of course, but a CSF sample is essential to the diagnosis of a number of neurological diseases. You'll receive a local anesthesia to deaden the pain, then they'll slip a needle into your spine to draw out a couple of teaspoons of fluid. You'll also be given a cup of tea to drink. The caffeine helps offset any headaches."

Cedric shrugged, not happy but trying to appear nonchalant. "I doubt it can be worse than what they did at St. Mungo's. They had to take measurements while the Paralysis Spell was off, and that _was _excruciating."

"Well, the LP is the worst we'll do to you. The rest is more dull than uncomfortable. I'm going to assemble a series of fundamental tests - things that'll give some basic clues as to what's not working right in your body. At this point in time, I'm not interested in the cause so much as the results. I'm working under a basic theory that whether due to magic, accident, or disease, the damage to your body is measurable by our instruments as much as by magical ones. And if measurable by our instruments, we're wondering if that damage will be recognizable to us as an illness. Given the descriptions Charles shared with Phil and I, whatever caused this problem, it's acting a lot like MS - multiple sclerosis. I want to see if it looks like MS, too, because if so, there are treatments. Medicines. We can't cure it, but we can treat it - assuming the NHS will let us prescribe what you need. Between the medicines you already have and anything we might be able to give you, who knows? Maybe we can slow it down even further.

"Did you bring samples of your medicines?" she finished.

Withdrawing two small vials, he nodded and handed them over, trying not to let any hope at her words catch hold in him. He also handed her the recipes for both potions, although, "I'm not sure how much good those will be. You could combine all those elements in the exact amounts with the precise directions and it still wouldn't produce the potion, I'm afraid. It takes, well, _magic_. I'm sorry."

"No need to apologize," she said, accepting the vials and raising them up to the light to study them. "I expect there is some chemical reaction occurring that yields the medicine. Again, the cause is less important here than the result. I want to see what chemical properties these medicines have so that we don't prescribe something for you that would interact badly with them." She wrote his name and a number on them and put both vials in her pocket. Dr. Granger had joined them, slipping into the room and giving Cedric a smile. Dr. Guest nodded at him. "I'm not sure how much discussion you've had previously, but Charles, Helen, Phil and myself all think that this 'magic' is simply a level of science we've not yet achieved. To quote a very famous Muggle author, 'Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic.'"

"Or another way of putting it," Hermione's father broke in, seating himself beside his wife, "is that your magic _is_ your technology. You call magic what we think could probably be explained scientifically. There's still so much about the universe that we don't understand. You say you're a wizard and Hermione is a witch, but perhaps what's really afoot here is just that you and our daughter were born with unique mental abilities we lack. You use your brain to a fuller capacity - call it ESP, if you like. It's genetic, and the fact it passes down only confirms that."

Hermione sighed out in a gust, looking at Cedric, "They think we're a science-fiction novel."

"Most so-called 'science fiction,'" her father said, "is just science we've not yet mastered - "

"_Whatever_ the case," Dr. Guest said before Hermione and her father could fall to debate, "I'm just explaining why we think this might be productive. The universe doesn't run on nonsense, even if we don't understand all the principles. Magic, science - they're both technologies. A 'technology' is anything human beings invent or develop to help them mold their world to better suit them. Magic causes actual, measurable and consistent changes - and that means whatever was done to you, Cedric, is something we can measure by our means, not just yours. The curse cast on you left 'footprints' - discernable results. That's what we're going to evaluate today."

Cedric found he'd followed the fundamentals of what Dr. Guest had said, even if some of the details and references went over his head. "When will you know any results?"

"We might know a few things today, but better to wait till sometime next week. You'll be at the Grangers . . . "

"Until Friday."

"We should have news for you before then." She rose and gestured to the door. "Shall we?"

He nodded.

The tests took all day, and not knowing what to expect, he remained nervous and tense. Reassurances could go only so far when one had no frame of reference. But aside from tedium, most was tolerable. He grew stiff and sore from lying on various hard surfaces, and the MRI was loud and claustrophobic, but the neurological exam was remarkably similar to what the Healers at St. Mungo's had done. They asked him to perform a heel-to-shin test, drawing his heel up his shin (which he didn't have the strength for), or had him put his finger to his nose (which was no problem), or drew a pointed object across the bottom of his foot (which caused his big toe to rise, not curl, and got murmurs from the doctor).

As specialists were required, Dr. Guest wasn't there for all of it, but Dr. Granger was. Before each test, he explained what was about to happen so Cedric wouldn't appear overly ignorant of things he ought to know. Cedric tried to look on it all as a learning experience. The technicians who assisted with the various machines were impersonally friendly, but the neurologist who gave him the exam was stern and inclined to talk over him to Dr. Granger instead.

The lumbar puncture, or spinal tap as Hermione called it, was the last test performed, as he had to remain horizontal for 24 hours afterwards. The actual puncture was uncomfortable, requiring him to curl knees to chin on the bed, but it didn't hurt unbearably, thanks to anesthesia. When it was over, he was left to shiver in a cold room with his feet slightly elevated whilst Hermione fed him hot tea through a straw and kept him company. "Do you think any of this is really going to do any good?" he asked her.

"I don't know," she replied. "I don't think it'll do any harm, and it's not costing anything . . . and sometimes it's easier just to go along with my parents when they've got a bee in their bonnet." He smiled at that. If mostly he got along with the Grangers, he'd found they could be as stubborn as their daughter.

"I wonder what my Healers would think if they knew I was in a Muggle hospital letting them stick needles in my spine."

"I'd worry more about Mrs. Weasley finding out. Remember what she thought of Mr. Weasley having stitches put in him?"

He smiled. "That, I understand. The notion of somebody _stitching_ me closed does seem rather . . . barbaric, you must admit."

"It's hardly embroidery thread, Cedric. It's special surgical twine that dissolves as the skin knits. All very high tech."

His smile didn't disappear. "For Muggles, perhaps. I'd still prefer a good Sealing Spell, thanks."

"I'm sorry, you know, about Dad earlier, and Aunt Brenda, and the whole 'ESP' thing. He comes out with that now and then - "

Cedric raised a hand and laid his fingers over her mouth. "It's all right." He dropped his hand. "They want to understand and they're trying, using what they do understand."

"They're scientists," Hermione said, head tilted. "It's been . . . hard for them, I think. They knew, even before Professor Dumbledore came to speak with them about Hogwarts, that I was . . . gifted. They weren't sure what it was, but they knew there was something different about me and ESP - extrasensory perception - was how they tried to explain it. Then the Headmaster came and talked about magic and witches and wizards and Hogwarts and . . . my parents had a hard time with it. They're pragmatic. It was obvious that magic existed, but calling it_ magic _. . . that was the problem, you see. Magic is non-scientific - nonsense. So they've had to somehow reconcile magic and science and . . . that's how they do it. They call it ESP."

Cedric was smiling as he listened to her half-explain, half-apologize. "You don't need to make excuses, Granger. Like I said, I understand - really. I do the same thing, but in reverse. And who knows? Maybe it is the same thing. A rose by any other name, you know?"

Shaking her head, she eyed him. "You quote Shakespeare, but don't know Emily Brontë? Anyway, yes, maybe so. And thanks - for being understanding."

"They're trying to help me; it's kind. I don't know if they can - I rather doubt it - but they're trying. I think this is . . . important, these small doors that open between your birth world and mine. As long as your parents want to stay a part of our world, let's make certain they can."

"It doesn't seem like most Muggle-borns want to stay connected to the Muggle world - "

"It's been discouraged. You can't be blind to the bias, poppet - you of all people. It's ugly, that attitude, but it's colored our world for centuries - long before Voldemort. If you want to see it change, _don't _buy into the bias, don't shut your parents out. _Be _Muggle-born. There's no shame in that. Muggle things . . . I think a lot of it's bloody brilliant. It's like any culture - in some ways they're behind us, in others, far, far ahead."

She laid her head on the hospital bed mattress near to his. Their faces were so close, she had to dart her own eyes back and forth between his. "Thank you."

"You're welcome."

She was quiet a moment, then said, "I suppose, if we're going to try to keep them a part of our world, I'll have to tell them about V-Voldemort."

"Yes, I think you do."

* * *

><p><strong>Notes:<strong> I have no idea if _The Moon Under Water _in Leicester Square has a toilet in the pub basement, so no slap at the establishment, but I have seen such silly things before and I'm making a point. Britain's big push for disabled access happened largely after this novel takes place, and even so - as noted - "disabled access" isn't always. There are hidden steps, thresholds, obstacles and other things that we rarely think about but those in chairs live with constantly. An inch rise can stop chair wheels. Rucked up rugs are problems. Store displays that block aisles make navigating difficult if not impossible. Etc.


	2. Changing of the Guard

Cedric was up by Sunday morning for breakfast, albeit moving slowly. Despite liberal infusions of caffeine, he was discovering that bad headaches were the pitfall of spinal taps. His pain potion had doubled as headache medicine over the past 36 hours. Mrs. Granger fed him a tofu omelette - tasty if odd - and he'd been at the Grangers only four days but was already craving meat in the worst way. In the middle of breakfast, an owl arrived with _The Sunday Prophet,_ headlines blaring**:**

**FUDGE OUT**  
><strong>SCRIMGEOUR IN<strong>  
><strong>Wizengamot Selects New Minister<strong>

"Oh, my God!" Hermione squeaked, dropping the paper onto her plate and getting omelette on it. Reaching over, Cedric snatched it and cast a cleaning spell before the ink smudged. "What do you know about Scrimgeour?" she asked him.

"He was head of the Auror division," Cedric replied, straightening the paper so he could skim the article even as Mrs. Granger emerged from the kitchen.

"Something interesting happen?" she asked.

"You could say that," Cedric replied, still distracted by the paper and not really thinking about the implication. Hermione's eyes went wide and she started to reach for the paper, but too late. Her mother had approached to read over Cedric's shoulder.

"Oh, my, your old Minister of Magic was sacked? Did his party lose favor? There hasn't been a general election, has there?"

"It doesn't work like that," Cedric replied, mind still on the article. It seemed that Fudge had been forced out over the embarrassment of Voldemort actually invading the Ministry. Cedric wasn't sure what influence Dumbledore might have had, but as Chief Warlock, no doubt quite a lot. "We have a council called the Wizengamot who appoints each Minister. If he - or she - loses the council's support, they're replaced. We don't have general elections." Cedric looked up. "Unfortunately, it's not that modern - more like your House of Lords, if not exactly. It's the highest court as well as a legislative branch, but there's no Commons, there's no sovereign above it, and they're not Peers - quite. It's not necessarily hereditary . . . although in practice, it often works out that way. I don't think there's been a Muggle-born appointed to sit on the Wizengamot in over a hundred years, which is rather sad, really."

Mrs. Granger took a third seat at the table, glancing over at her daughter. "I think that's the first time I've had an explanation of your government that actually made sense. Charles asked Arthur Weasley about it once, and wound up with a confusing flowchart of your Ministry departments and a list of trivia about the last five Ministers." She smiled. "Arthur's a dear, but I gather he's easily distracted by details."

Cedric smiled too and refolded the paper, handing it back to Hermione so she could read it, but instead she stashed it out of sight under the table. He resisted sighing. It seemed to him that this was the ideal time to talk to her parents about Voldemort being back.

"I take it," Mrs. Granger went on, "the Malfoys and Blacks would both sit on this Wizengamot?"

"Yes, my mother's father had a seat and Lucius Malfoy has one now, but there are no Blacks left."

This seemed to take Mrs. Granger by surprise. "But what about Harry's godfather?" She looked towards Hermione. "Isn't his godfather a Black?"

Cedric let Hermione reply to that, not at all sure what she'd told her mother. Hermione sighed and folded her hands on the table. "Sirius was still considered a wanted man, mum. Remember I told you that he'd been thought responsible for selling out Harry's parents to, er, He Who Must Not Be Named?"

"Voldemort, yes." Her mother seemed to be resisting rolling her eyes at the name-dodging. "And yes, I remember, but I thought you said it was a different fellow who did that - "

"Peter Pettigrew, except Pettigrew got away before that could be proved. So Sirius had to stay on the run. He could hardly take a seat on the Wizengamot when they were after his neck."

"They're looking for this Pettigrew?"

"They didn't know to." Hermione glanced at Cedric. "And, well, it's a bit moot now. Sirius, um - he died, mum. Just a few weeks ago. It was sort of an accident. He fell through a magic veil."

Mrs. Granger seemed both shocked and confused. "A piece of cloth killed him?"

"It was magic."

Cedric just eyed Hermione, and perhaps if she'd been by herself, she'd have been able to bluff her way through it, but with him there, she felt uncertain enough over the half-truth that her mother picked up on it easily. "What's the rest of the story, kids?" She looked from Cedric to Hermione.

Hermione sighed again. "There was a battle in the Ministry itself - that's why the old Minister is being ousted. Remember how I told you that there were people who tried to kill Harry when he was a baby?" Mrs. Granger nodded. "Well - they're back."

Mrs. Granger sat up in her seat. "They are? What's being done to catch them? I assume you mean this Voldemort's followers?"

"Yes. Death Eaters. They . . . they wanted to capture Harry, but Sirius, some Aurors, and Professor Dumbledore caught them at it in the Ministry."

That was, Cedric thought, a _creative_ revision if ever he'd heard one, although still essentially true.

"There was a fight," Hermione continued, "and Sirius was pushed through a veil. Or really, he fell through it. And died. So Harry's been . . . pretty upset."

"I should say so! But Harry's all right?"

"Yes, Harry's fine. Well, physically fine."

Head still turned so Mrs. Granger couldn't see, Cedric pressed his lips together and continued to eye Hermione. She was going to have to tell more than that - if not perhaps the entire disastrous flight to the Ministry including her own wounding.

"What happened to these people?" Mrs. Granger asked. "Were they caught?"

"Oh, yes. Dumbledore was there, like I said, so they were mostly rounded up and sent to Azkaban."

Relieved, Mrs. Granger sighed. "So Harry's no longer in danger." Cedric thought what she really meant was that Hermione was no longer in danger, by extension.

Hermione nodded. "Not at the moment, he isn't."

Cedric felt his lips get thinner; Hermione shot him a glance that fell between quelling and alarmed.

"Of course," she added, "with the Death Eaters back, even if some of them were arrested at the Ministry, there's a certain amount of threat. That's apparently why Fudge was thrown out of office; he wasn't handling it well. The new Minister . . . well, he was the former head of the Auror Department." She nodded to Cedric. "That's what Ced told me."

And now Mrs. Granger's attention shifted to Cedric. "What do you know about the new Minister?"

Cedric frowned down at the table. "He was a good Auror and ran the department well, if a bit tightly. I don't really know much more than that, I'm afraid."

"Do you think he'll be able to handle these 'Death Eater' people? They sound a bit like terrorists. Or Neo-Nazis."

Cedric wasn't sure what a Neo-Nazi was but assumed it had something to do with that Hitler person. "I suppose you could say they're terrorists. They believe that purebloods should run things and would exclude Muggle-borns - like Hermione - not just from positions of authority, but even from learning magic at Hogwarts." He bent forward a little, raising his eyes to meet Mrs. Granger's, which were dark like her daughter's. "Please believe me - that is not how most of us think, even those who are purebloods ourselves, or as close as makes no difference."

"Oh, I believe you, Cedric. It's very obvious you don't think that way, or your parents, or Professor Dumbledore." She gazed out of the sliding glass door into the back garden. "It seems that racism in some form is common to all human communities, unfortunately. It's a bit funny" - she glanced back - "to think that Hermione is part of a minority in your world because in ours, we're not minorities, although we've always supported minority rights."

"It's all about where people draw their circles," Cedric agreed. "Who falls inside and who falls out."

Mrs. Granger reached over to pat his hand. "That reminds me of a poem I read years ago now. I don't remember it precisely, but it went something like, 'They drew a circle to shut us out, rebels, heretics, things to flout. But love and I had the wit to win; we made a circle that drew them in.'"

"I like that," Cedric said, grinning. "I've never heard it before, but I like it."

"I thought you might," she said, rising from the table. "I'd best go and wake your father, Hermione. I don't think he quite wants to sleep until noon." And she headed for the stairs.

"Well," Hermione said, "that went rather better than I'd feared."

Cedric returned to his now-cold omelette. "No, poppet, that was a good _start_. A certain snake-eyed fellow didn't even enter into the conversation. At least not in the present tense." He considered a moment, adding, "Although it _was _a good start. Probably better not to dump it all on them at once."

There was more discussion of Wizarding politics over dinner. Vegetarians, the Grangers didn't have the usual Sunday joint and potatoes, but it was still the main meal of the week, with quite a spread ranging from summer greens to cheesed potatoes to one of Mrs. Granger's funny meatless but well-seasoned casseroles. For afters, there was fruit with whipped cream. "Helen said you have a new Minister of Magic? The former head of your police?"

Cedric nodded. "We call them Aurors. Well, we have what you'd call police, but also Aurors. Hermione said they're a bit like your Scottish Yard. Anyway, he was head of that department, and now he's been made Minister."

"Scotland Yard," Dr. Granger corrected absently. "And he's Minister because of a growing threat from these . . . death-eating people?"

_Ah, _Cedric thought - _there it was. _ Hermione's face had gone slightly white, but really, Cedric was glad it had come back up, although he suspected the Grangers were about to engage in a bit of Quaffle passing in order to get to the root of the matter. "They call themselves Death Eaters," he said. "I was explaining to Mrs. Granger - "

"Helen, please, Cedric," Hermione's mother interrupted.

"You don't have to be so formal with us, lad," Dr. Granger - Charles - said with a smile, putting him at ease, or trying to. Cedric recognized the tactic for what it was, even whilst he understood they weren't the enemy. They were just worried parents.

"All right," he said, glancing over at Hermione, who had her head down over her plate. "They're Wizard supremacists, but like I said, they _don't _represent what most of us think - whatever _they_ may think."

"They're back on the rise?"

"Looks like it." Cedric tried not to sound as worried as he was; the goal was to let them know, not panic them. "Fudge wasn't proving very competent, so he was replaced."

"Is Hermione in danger?" Mrs. Granger - Helen - blurted out, getting a quick look from her husband. Hermione's father had probably been trying to get to the critical part without sounding overly protective.

"Everybody's in danger," Cedric said honestly, meeting Charles Granger's eyes. "But these people are the lunatic fringe."

"Fanatics," Hermione added. "They're just uneducated fanatics, dad. Like skinheads and BNPs."

Cedric didn't know what either of those things were, but could guess. The problem was that while some Death Eaters were drawn from the disgruntled dregs of Wizarding society, others weren't. "Some of them aren't uneducated," he said, voice hard and angry. "They're just bigoted, conservative snobs. They make me furious because they ought to have more sense than that."

That won a smile from Charles and he looked at his wife, thumbing at Cedric. "Remind you of anybody?"

"You at that age, you old Guardianista," she replied, then to Cedric, "I'm afraid Hermione's father was a bit of a bleeding-heart liberal."

"And you weren't?" Charles asked.

"Your hair was longer than mine, love. And you had it all over your face, too."

"What's wrong with long hair and a beard?" Cedric asked, confused, which made all the Grangers laugh.

"My parents were hippies," Hermione explained - which didn't really explain anything - and before he could ask, she added, "They participated in anti-Vietnam and CND marches, protested Apartheid. Er, Vietnam was a war and CND means 'campaign for nuclear disarmament.' Getting rid of nuclear weapons - the atomic bomb and such. Mom took me to Greenham Common - the big women's protest there at the U.S. Air Force base. She didn't stay at the camp long, of course, but she made the march with me in a pushchair." She said this proudly with a glance at her mother, who was smiling. "I was only two."

Cedric shook his head, although he was smiling too. "Still lost, poppet, sorry. But I'm starting to see where the House-Elf Liberation Front comes from."

"That's my daughter," Charles Granger said, proudly. "But to return to these Death Eaters" - Cedric could almost see Hermione wince; she must have thought she was distracting her father - "if they're causing enough of a ruckus to force a change in Minister, that's a bit more than the lunatic fringe."

"They are a serious threat," Cedric allowed, opting for honesty. "But there are things one can do to protect against them until they're back under control - not go out alone at night, not go into Knockturn Alley, ward one's house . . . common-sense things."

Charles was nodding. "Warding a house is like . . . locking a door?"

"Sort of," Cedric replied. "They're spells that keep hostiles from entering your property."

"More like a burglar alarm, dad," Hermione supplied.

"So locks on doors wouldn't help much?" He was looking at his wife, face worried. "Would there be a reason for these . . . Death Eaters . . . to attack us here? Since they don't like non-wizard-born witches?"

The Grangers weren't foolish, and Hermione appeared nearly panicked, both hands going out. "Dr. Granger," Cedric said before Hermione could speak, "your house has already been warded. It was warded by no less than Albus Dumbledore himself, done some time back." The Grangers (even Hermione) appeared gobstruck by that and he set down his fork, dinner mostly forgotten. "We understand that Muggles can't protect themselves against magic any more than I'd know how to protect myself against, er, Muggle things. We wouldn't leave you with the magical equivalent of unlocked doors, so your house is warded, as is your surgery. It doesn't mean _nothing_ could happen, but you're certainly not abandoned and unprotected."

Hermione's parents exchanged unreadable expressions. "Why have these Death Eaters suddenly turned aggressive?" Dr. Granger asked. "Or is it sudden? Racial tensions of this sort - well wizard-non-wizard tensions here, I suppose - may erupt all of a sudden, but they've usually been building for a while."

Cedric glanced at Hermione. She didn't appear inclined to take over the conversation; perhaps she thought her parents would panic less if Cedric told them since he wasn't their child. "Well," Cedric said now, "these aren't new tensions, but after Lord Voldemort was killed - or we thought he was killed - in the last war, it went underground. But it never really went away."

"Thought he was killed?" Dr. Granger asked, quick to pick up on that. "I understood he _was_ killed - by Harry in fact, with that rebounding curse?" Hermione was looking worried again, but Cedric had phrased it that way on purpose.

"That was the popular belief," he said now. "The Death Eaters are claiming he's back. He could be. There was never a body found. But it may be like Christian claims of Jesus' resurrection."

He felt awful for lying, implying that it was invention; Voldemort _was_ back, and Cedric had stood with Harry to insist on it in the face of opposition, threats and accusations that he was drug-addled. Nonetheless, Hermione was looking relieved again and the Grangers - who Cedric knew to be cheerful atheists - were nodding in understanding of how followers might be so desperate for a miracle, they invented a legend. "So you don't think he is back?" Dr. Granger asked.

Cedric shrugged. "He could be. As I said, no body was ever found. But in our world as well as yours, people don't come back from the dead, so if he's back, it's because he never actually died, but if so, where's he been for 14 years? _They_ think he's back. Maybe that's all that matters."

Yet Charles wasn't willing to let it go. "What do _you_ think?" Cedric had to resist squirming. "Lad, I get the feeling you're trying to make me less nervous, but you're actually making me more so. Just tell us - what's going on? What sort of danger are we in? Is Hermione in?"

"Dad - " Hermione started, but her father held up a hand and didn't even look at her, just kept his eyes on Cedric. They were light eyes like Cedric's own, neither blue nor green but something of both, and Cedric was reminded that just because the Grangers were Muggles didn't mean they were idiots. And they loved their daughter.

Lifting his own eyes, he met Charles Granger's again. "There's danger to all of us. But if I didn't think Hermione safe enough here, I'd be trying to move her somewhere else. This turn-over at the Ministry should help, and as long as Albus Dumbledore is out there, the Death Eaters and Voldemort will be cautious."

"So you _do_ think he's back, this Voldemort?"

Cedric frowned. He could almost feel Hermione holding her breath. "Yes, I think he may be, but sir, if he is alive, and out there, he _wants_ people to run in fear. It would make a victory for his sort so very much easier. I won't run from him, I won't give in to his bigotry. He's _evil_, and not in some religious 'devil' sense. He's evil because he promotes hate."

Charles Granger held Cedric's eyes a moment longer before saying, "All that's necessary for evil to triumph is for men of conscience to do nothing."

"Yes," Cedric said, nodding. "Although to be honest, right now, there's not much to do except help the Ministry track them down - if one can - and be careful, of course."

The Grangers exchanged a look that lasted several heartbeats, then finally Charles Granger said, "All right - so is there anything more we can do? To be safe? To keep Hermione safe?"

Hermione appeared ready to faint with relief.

"Not really," Cedric replied, equally relieved. "Like I said, your house and surgery were warded and the Death Eaters are mostly purebloods or raised in the Wizarding World. They don't understand Muggle things - and don't take them seriously, either. That actually gives you an advantage. They won't venture much into Muggle life unless they have to. Although it sounds a bit insulting, they may never take notice of you at all."

"What about Hermione's friendship with Harry?" Helen Granger asked. "You said earlier that Harry's godfather was killed whilst fighting these . . . Death Eater people, who were planning to attack Harry."

"Harry's their target, mum, not me," Hermione broke in. "They don't even know who I am."

"So Hermione's beneath their radar?" Charles asked - but of Cedric, not Hermione.

"Radar?" Cedric asked, confused, even as Hermione finally spoke up, "Yes, dad. This really isn't something to worry about. And there's nothing to do beyond the obvious precautions."

"Hermione," her father said, turning to her. "I asked Cedric. I know you don't want us to worry, but Cedric . . . he cares about you too. I want him to answer this." Dr. Granger shot Cedric a look that seemed to say, 'Don't endanger my daughter.'

Cedric felt caught, reminded of what his own parents had said to him about putting Hermione at risk. He picked up his fork and played with it, frowning down at his plate and not answering immediately. "Cedric," Hermione said, clearly annoyed at what she assumed was his capitulation and betrayal.

Cedric looked up again, glancing from Helen to Charles. "Hermione's not in _no_ danger. She's Muggle-born. But I don't believe she's in exceptional danger, either. If I did, I'd be trying to whisk her away to somewhere more protected - I wasn't kidding about that." He frowned and couldn't quite look at either of them, as he said, "I love your daughter." He could feel himself blushing. "Maybe you think we're too young, but I love her - I do. I wouldn't let anything happen to her if I could prevent it, and right now, the best protection for Hermione is wherever Professor Dumbledore is. There was ever only one wizard Voldemort feared, and if he's back, that won't have changed. Dumbledore is that wizard. It's . . . difficult to express exactly how powerful he is. I know you've met him, and he's very unassuming in person. But really" - he lifted his eyes again - "Charles, Helen . . . Albus Dumbledore is the most powerful wizard Britain has seen in centuries. A prodigy. There will be parents who'll think they can protect their children better, who'll panic and not let them return to Hogwarts. They're fools, honestly. There _is_ no safer place than Hogwarts while Dumbledore is Headmaster. The school itself has a thousand years of natural defenses, and also the most powerful wizard alive sleeping in the Headmaster's tower. If you want Hermione to be safe, that's where she'll be safe."

Neither of the Grangers had spoken, listening to Cedric with honest interest. Now, Helen asked, "And until then? Until she goes back to school? Should we . . . " she trailed off, then drew breath and asked, "should we send her to your parents? To other wizards?"

Cedric smiled, understanding what that must have cost. They were willing to give her up to see her safe. "I think she's fine for now. The Death Eaters are on the move again, but Hermione's not a target, or not a particular target. Right now, their attention seems directed elsewhere, and this change in the Ministry will give them pause. We were planning to go to my house next weekend anyway, then come back here for a bit, then to mine again until school starts. I see no reason to change that. If I do think there's a reason, I'll let you know."

The Grangers seemed to accept that and there was certainly no talk of moving anywhere out of the country; dinner concluded with conversation about other things. In fact, Charles and Helen got out old Muggle photograph albums, showing Cedric pictures from their college days - Charles Granger's hair really had been longer than his wife's. There were photos of various protests and demonstrations and even some from a music festival they called Glastonbury and another called the Cambridge Folk Festival. There was a picture of a very young (and skinny) Charles with bags of bottles stacked as high as his head. "That was 1971," he said. "Friends of the Earth staged a demo here in London where we dumped thousands of non-recyclable bottles at Schweppes' corporate headquarters." The mental image of mountains of drink bottles on some business's front doorstep amused Cedric. There was even a picture of toddler Hermione with dark blond, ringlet curls carrying a sign that read: "LET ME GROW UP - NO MORE NUKES." Cedric had to have 'nukes' explained to him, then was appalled. Muggles had weapons that could vaporize_ millions _in an instant? What was magic compared to that? And what manner of idiots were they to manufacture enough of those to destroy the entire planet a hundred times over?

"Didn't they care," he asked, "that most of the people living never elected them or gave them power to make those decisions for everybody in the first place?"

"No," Charles Granger said, "they didn't care. They considered themselves either protectors of freedom or champions of the exploited masses. But really, it was all about preserving their _own_ power. That's why we marched, Helen and I. But oddly, I think their self-serving saved us all. They weren't willing to push the button. It's the powers rising now that I worry about - religious fanatics**: **Christian, Muslim . . . it doesn't matter. They don't care about this life, just the one they believe will come after. Those are the sort we really need to worry about."

Cedric went to bed oddly troubled. He'd never been all that aware of Muggle wars and conflict - hadn't considered them to be a threat. Yet they were. Wizarding self-involvement seemed absurd when one considered that as little as 15 or even 10 years ago, two "superpowers" had kept fingers above buttons that could have destroyed _everything_ - the entire _planet_ - and Cedric really doubted Wizardkind could have halted a thousand ICBMs. He'd lived in the shadow of that threat and hadn't even known how tenuous his own continued existence was.

Perhaps Voldemort's fears about Muggles weren't unfounded, but rather than make him more sympathetic to separatist beliefs, he found himself even angrier. How could Voldemort waste their time with his petty little quest for power? Why weren't wizards out there trying to interact with Muggles to halt these idiotic war-games, these new crusades and inquisitions? Did the Wizarding world really believe that withdrawal was still viable in a world where destruction wasn't a few fires and nooses, but _global_? His people had stuck their collective heads in the sand so long, they had no clue what was happening on the Muggle world stage. "Idiots," Cedric muttered, pulling off his shirt and tossing it on a chair.

A knock came on the door and he turned his head towards it. "Come in?" He was still without a shirt, but it was just Charles Granger, his face serious. And perhaps Cedric should have expected this visit, but he'd been distracted with other thoughts.

"She's my little girl," Dr. Granger said, his expression torn between threat and pleading. "She's all I have. You say you love her - you take care of her, Cedric. I don't know how, in your world - I don't know how. But she's my little girl. Don't let anything happen to her."

Uncomfortable but oddly sympathetic, Cedric ran a hand into his hair, recognizing himself 20 years hence**: **the father of a daughter who was still _his_ little girl, if not a little girl anymore in the eyes of the world. Something was being passed here, an archaic responsibility that would probably annoy the women in their lives but was still powerfully real to them. Cedric looked at the Shrunk wheelchair and crutches in the bowl on the bedside table, as small as toys. But not toys. They chained him. He hated them. "I'd give my life to save hers," he said simply. Then he looked back at her father. "She'd hate it if she knew we were discussing her this way."

"Of course she would. I raised her to." His lips twisted; it was an ironic expression, not a smile. "But it doesn't change how I feel."

"I know," Cedric said. "Doesn't change how I feel either."

Charles Granger nodded once and left, closing the door softly behind him. They understood each other, Cedric thought**: **'enlightened' men who couldn't quite escape an outmoded chivalry. Cedric loved his clever and capable girl, admired her, and would defend her independence - even as he'd die to protect her.

* * *

><p>Hermione <em>had<em>been expecting the knock on her bedroom door, so when it came, she wasn't surprised. "What is it, mum?" she called before even seeing who'd knocked.

Her mother opened the door, smiling almost guiltily. "It could have been your father, or Cedric."

"I'd have heard Cedric coming, and I knew it would be you, not dad." Hands on hips, she faced her mother down. "If you're coming to try to talk to me about this 'danger,' you heard it all at dinner."

Her mother shut the door and leaned against Hermione's old desk, a simple flat-topped affair with four drawers, painted white with gold edging. She could still remember when her parents had bought it for her, how she'd felt like a 'grown up girl' with her very own desk. Now, her mother wore a faint smile. 'What I heard - and saw - at dinner was a young man trying to reassure us without falling out of your good graces." Hermione opened her mouth to object, but her mother hushed her with a gesture. "Actually, I didn't come here to talk about that."

"You didn't?"

"Your father and I are perfectly well aware you two were underselling the danger, but neither of you seem to be out chasing it down either, and Cedric looked sincere when he said you'd be safest at Hogwarts. Life is full of dangers and there's a point at which you put yourself in greater danger by panicking about it. We raised you to be sensible, take precautions, and not engage in silly risks. You've never failed us in that, and Cedric is a mature and reasonable young man, so we're inclined to trust you now. We have to let you grow up sometime."

This left Hermione feeling both guilty and reassured. She _had _engaged in risks before, if not silly ones, and her mother was right - she and Cedric had been underselling the danger. Yet as her mother had said, they also _weren't_ going out and seeking it, and were being as cautious and sensible as they could be. The fact her parents were, in turn, being sensible and fair simply underscored Cedric's earlier assertion that they wouldn't force some impossible choice on her. "So what _did_ you come to talk about?" Hermione asked, curious.

"Well, Cedric, actually."

Puzzled but immediately defensive again, Hermione asked, "What about him?"

Her mother sighed and rubbed at her eyes. "Hermione, really. When will you stop assuming we don't like him? I just remarked on the fact that we do. The poor love was very emphatic tonight about how he feels; it was darling. He'd turn himself inside out for you. I suppose I just wanted to know if there's anything you need to ask for? If you might need any birth control? Your father and I . . . well, we realize neither of you are children, and we'd rather you were honest than try to hide things and get yourselves into trouble."

It was more or less what Hermione had assumed, that her parents suspected what she and Cedric did in private - and were tolerant of it - but the question still made her blush. Leaning down to fold her covers back simply to give herself something to do, she said, "There are spells and such for birth control. We're careful."

She didn't want to talk to her mother about the painting, or being pregnant, or losing the baby, even as she also wanted to. She feared her mother wouldn't understand.

"And is he . . . well, is there anything you want to know?" her mother pressed. "After years of being told you're the one who has to remain _in_ control, it can be . . . difficult . . . to let go - even lead to frustration."

Hermione found herself smiling almost against her will. "It's okay, mum. We're okay. You educated me pretty thoroughly when I was younger. And he . . . He's good to me. Very patient. Very attentive." She felt her skin flush again. "We're okay."

"All right," her mother said, clearly no more comfortable with this conversation than Hermione.

"I suppose," Hermione added, "if there's anything I wanted to ask, it would be, er, well - if you want us to be honest and not hide things . . . perhaps we could, urm, sleep in the guestroom bed? Together?"

That took her very middle-class mother a bit aback, former flower child or not. "Well . . . well, I . . . I'll discuss it with your father. But yes - yes, we did say to be honest, didn't we? And that would be being honest. He's, what, almost nineteen? And you're almost seventeen. It's just . . . my mother would never have allowed . . . but then she never told me a _damn_ thing, either, about men or sex. I swore I wouldn't make that mistake with you."

"And you didn't, mum." If anything, her mother had been embarrassingly detailed in what she'd told Hermione, as long as it was academic and hypothetical. Neither Hermione nor her mother were good at personalizing such things, which was why her request fell out awkwardly now. It wasn't hypothetical sex that Hermione would engage in someday. It was real sex with a real boy right now in the Grangers' own house.

So her mother hesitated a moment, then gave a decisive nod. "I'll talk to your father."

"Thanks, mum."

* * *

><p>With Monday-morning breakfast, the usual owl appeared bearing <em>The Daily Prophet<em>; but shortly thereafter came a second, handsome eagle owl with a heavy cream envelope addressed to _Mr. Cedric Diggory_. It virtually screamed official correspondence, but this was early yet for NEWT results. And Paolo Sweeney, head of the London Transfiguration College, had said he wouldn't contact Cedric until after seeing his NEWTs. So curious, Cedric gave the owl a bit of bacon and sent it off, flipping over the letter. The official seal of the Ministry of Magic stared back at him.

Suddenly hot with anxiety, Cedric swallowed. What was this about? Grabbing a penknife from his pocket, he slipped it under the envelope flap and slit it open, pulling out the parchment inside, his eyes dropping down to the signature**: **_Rufus Scrimgeour, Minister of Magic._

Cedric blinked. He was holding a letter written to him personally by the new Minister?

"What is it?" Hermione asked, "What's happened? Cedric, are you all right? You look as white as a sheet."

"I have a letter from the Minister."

"What?"

"I have a letter from the Minister. He wrote me a personal letter."

"_What?" _She half rose from her seat. "You're not in trouble, are you?"

Smiling sardonically, Cedric looked up at her. "Funny, isn't it, how that's the first thing we ask now?" He looked back down to read even as Hermione came around to read over his shoulder.

_Dear Mr. Diggory,_

_ It has come to my attention that despite trying and unfortunate circumstances, you were instrumental in maintaining student morale during your final year at Hogwarts. It has also come to my attention that you worked to promote house unity regardless of attempts to divide and conquer. Most of all, however, you continued to insist that He Who Must Not Be Named had returned even in the face of attacks on your character and sanity - displaying the honesty and integrity for which your house is famous. All together, this points to an unusual degree of maturity and self-possession._

_ I'm not one for wasting time on flowery speeches, so I'll be frank. In this time of turmoil and threat, we need men like you in the Ministry. I understand that you've applied for admission to the Transfiguration College and tested for a license in Advanced Transfiguration, no doubt intending a career in business or manufacture - a lucrative option for a talented young man. But I hope that you'll entertain the possibility of serving your government as your father did before you. (Incidentally, your father has been offered his position back, given the trumped-up charges Fudge concocted to have him ousted. We hope he accepts, as his long-time service has been sterling and his experience is needed.)_

_ In - forgive me - hopeful anticipation of a positive reception to this letter, I've taken the liberty of arranging an interview at the Ministry tomorrow morning at 9 a.m. sharp. You may report directly to my own office. If you are unable or, Merlin forbid, unwilling to grant us an interview, then please return an answer to my office before 5 p.m. today. Otherwise, we shall look forward to seeing you on the morrow._

_ Sincerely,  
>Rufus Scrimgeour<br>Minister of Magic_

"Well," said Hermione from behind him, "that was certainly buttering you up."

Mouth open a little in shock, Cedric turned to look at her. Her expression was singularly unimpressed, the corners of her mouth tucked down and her brows furrowed. And he suddenly felt both irritated and foolish because he hadn't seen flattery in the letter, or at least not unadulterated flattery. "You think so?"

She either didn't hear or ignored the sarcasm in his tone. "Of course. He wants you on his side, Cedric. He just took over from Fudge and needs to distance himself from Fudge's regime, so symbols are what he's looking for. You're Harry's friend, were a Triwizard champion and Head Boy, and opposed Umbridge on the side of Dumbledore. Most of all, you and Harry turned out to be right about Voldemort. He has every reason in the world to want you in his office, and now he's rushing this interview so you don't have time to think about it."

Cedric's irritation turned to full-blown annoyance - at Scrimgeour for the possibility he really was just using him, and at Hermione for pointing it out. "You don't think it's sincere? You don't think he might, I don't know, actually believe I'm _competent_? He only wants me for a show, not because I could do my job?" He'd wanted to work for the Ministry since he'd been a boy, but had given up that dream because of Fudge. Now it was back on the table and within his grasp. _They_ were coming to _him_.

"What _job_?" Hermione asked. "They didn't even name the job they're interviewing you for, did they? This interview isn't for a position in International Relations, Cedric. Scrimgeour wants you to lend legitimacy to his tenure. He's not interested in what you can do, just in who you are."

She looked . . . angry. As angry as Cedric now felt himself - in large part because she had a point. He wanted to think Scrimgeour really _had _meant those complimentary things he'd said, and itchy with irritation, he threw the letter on the table, unlocked his chair wheels, and rolled backwards to put a few feet between them. He was glad her parents had left several hours ago for their office; he didn't want this witnessed. "Lovely. Wonderful vote of confidence there, Granger."

"Cedric, stop being ridiculous and touchy. You're _brilliant_. But Scrimgeour doesn't care - and _that _makes me furious. He just wants you for his poster boy. Don't go to this stupid interview. Wait for your NEWTs and the results of your application to the Transfiguration College."

"The Transfiguration College isn't what I _want_! Don't you get it? I thought you understood. I've wanted to work for the Ministry for years - I just assumed I couldn't. Now they're asking _me_. And so the fuck what if Scrimgeour thinks he can use me for his image? I just want a job there - I want my foot in the door."

"So you'd let them use you to get what you want? I thought you had principles!"

"Of course I have principles! But how can I change anything from the outside?"

They were yelling at each other, she red in the face and close to tears, he hot with disappointment, shame and offended righteousness. He took a breath, trying to be calm, "I'm going to the interview tomorrow. I owe the Minister the courtesy of hearing what he has in mind, at least."

She looked away. "If you take this job, Cedric, you'll be buying into the establishment."

"This from the girl who always worries about breaking the rules?"

"Maybe I've learned the rules aren't necessarily about justice!"

"You're being reactionary. I'm going to the interview and I'll hear out the Minister. Having an interview isn't taking a job. But I will need proper robes" - which he didn't have at her house. "I'll . . . I'll need to go home."

Truth was, he could have Transfigured something but felt a bit wounded and bloody, off balance from her cynical reading of the Minister's offer - even as he recognized she had a point. No doubt his mother would say the same thing, but he wanted . . . he wanted to _believe _the Minister's offer, wanted to think somebody believed in and wanted him. Even now, a year later, he still felt hyper-conscious of his disability and feared that was all anybody saw when looking at him. 'The poor bloke in the wheelchair,' not a capable young man.

She still wasn't looking at him. "Will you come back?"

"After, yes, of course."

"After the interview you mean."

"Yes."

"You shouldn't take this job without talking to the Order."

"Hermione, it's my life!"

"This isn't just about you!"

They were shouting again, and this was getting them nowhere. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his crutches. "I'm going upstairs to pack."

"Fine. I'll clean up from breakfast."

"I can do the dishes for you."

"No, never mind. I can handle it." She stalked off. The air between them was frigid.

* * *

><p>After Cedric left, Hermione lost no time in sitting down at the kitchen table to pen a letter to Dumbledore. She had no idea where he was and so addressed it to him at Hogwarts, wishing she had Harry's clever Hedwig to get it to the right place. She'd have to depend on the owls at the Diagon Alley post. She knew Cedric would be angry that she was venturing out alone that very afternoon, but she didn't care at the moment what Cedric thought.<p>

_Dear Professor Dumbledore,_

_ Please forgive me for trespassing on your time during the summer, but Cedric received a letter today from the new Minister Scrimgeour, inviting him to an interview. I think the letter was falsely flattering and that the Minister simply wants to use Cedric's good name, but Cedric wants to believe it's genuine and is planning to attend the interview._

_ Perhaps this seems a petty and personal quarrel, but I fear if he takes this job, it could have larger, negative ramifications. I doubt he intends to bother you with the news, but I'd prefer to be too cautious than to leave you uninformed._

_ The interview is scheduled for 9 a.m. tomorrow. I hope this letter reaches you before that time._

_ Sincerely,  
>Hermione Granger<em>

When Hermione's parents came home that evening, they were surprised to find Cedric absent. "What's up?" her mother asked, sensitive to Hermione's foul mood.

"Cedric got an interview for a job. He needed to go home to fetch proper clothing. He said he'd be back tomorrow."

Both her parents eyed her, but let it pass. And quite late that same evening, she received a letter addressed to her in spidery writing and green ink, delivered by none other than the Headmaster's phoenix. She could feel some sort of protection spell tingling over her fingers as she opened it.

_ Dear Miss Granger,_

_ Thank you for your conscientious concern. I was informed about the invitation extended to Mr. Diggory earlier today. I fear that your worries may be well-taken, but by the same token, to have another member of the Order working at the Ministry, and perhaps even working in the Minister's own office, could be to our advantage. Certainly, it never hurts to be polite and hear out such offers. I have spoken with Mr. Diggory myself, and I think him aware of the potential pitfalls as well as the opportunities. I trust in Cedric's common sense and integrity, as I'm sure you do, as well._

_ For the safety of the Order, please burn this letter at your earliest convenience._

_ Sincerely,  
>Albus Dumbledore<em>

_ P.S. As I'm sure you know, finishing school and finding a job is a trying time for any student. Given Cedric's handicap, those normal worries must be greatly magnified. If he reacts badly to your concern for his well-being, perhaps he saw it as doubt about his abilities, even if we both know that's not the case?_

Hermione blinked at the letter. It was respectful, reassuring and . . . had the Headmaster just offered her _relationship advice_? Or perhaps it was a gentle rebuke. Whatever the case, and with Cedric's popularity and abilities, she _did_ tend to forget he could have the same anxieties as anybody else. She didn't want to pity him; he wouldn't like it and didn't need it. But pity wasn't the same as being conscious of the additional concerns he suffered. His disability _did_ complicate things. And . . . perhaps she'd lost sight of that in her anger at Scrimgeour. The problem lay in the fact Scrimgeour's flattery was largely _true_. She just doubted the sincerity of his motives and wanted somebody to hire Cedric for his abilities, not political brownie points. Yet she'd cast doubt on Scrimgeour's motives, assuming Cedric already _knew_ she believed him exceptional.

Perhaps he needed to be reminded. "Fawkes," she said, glancing up at the phoenix still perched on the edge of her desk. "I'm very sorry, but could I trouble you to make one more delivery tonight? We don't have an owl of our own." Fawkes turned his head slightly, but then lifted the foot with the temporary letter clamp. "Thank you," Hermione said fervently, and began writing.

* * *

><p><strong>Notes: <strong>The poem Helen Granger quotes is by Edwin Markham, and misremembering, Helen Granger quotes it slightly off. It originally ran: "He drew a circle that shut me out. Heretic, rebel, a thing to flout. But love and I had the wit to win; We drew a circle that took him in."


	3. Ministry of Magic

Braces off, Cedric was reading in bed the night before his interview, a light blanket over his legs against the unnatural mid-summer chill, and Esiban curled happily atop the blanket. A pecking at his bedroom window startled him and he sat up, peering toward the glass. Who sent owls at this hour? Unless it were an emergency?

Aiming his wand at the latch, he muttered, "_Alohamora,_" and a red flash of feathers sailed across to settle on the bedpost near his head, making Esiban hiss. "Fawkes!" Perhaps it _was_ an emergency if the Headmaster had sent him a note this late on Monday night - but the handwriting wasn't Dumbledore's. It was Hermione's. Why had she borrowed Fawkes to send him a letter - which raised the more fundamental question of what Fawkes had been doing at the Grangers' house in the first place? "Thank you," he told the phoenix, who cocked his head in query. "No, it's all right," Cedric replied. "If I need to send an answer, we have an owl. It was kind of you to bring this for Hermione."

Fawkes let out one of his high-pitched cries, launching off the post and out the window. Cedric closed it behind him, then unrolled the parchment. It was short and to the point**:**

_Sorry for yelling earlier, but it makes me angry to think Scrimgeour's using you. You're too talented to be some politician's trophy. But I know you've wanted to work at the Ministry for a long time, so if you think this job will eventually get you where you want to be, then I'm behind you. It's you I believe in Cedric, not Scrimgeour._

_ Love,  
>Granger<em>

Her olive branch. And with time having passed since the morning blow-up, not to mention conversations with Dumbledore and both of his parents, Cedric was feeling less in a huff too. Unfortunately, he was also tired and not inclined to get out of bed, write a letter, chase down their owl and send it off. He doubted Hermione expected an immediate reply anyway.

The next morning, groaning, he rose with the sun, but supposed he should get used to it. Soon, he'd have to become a contributing member of society, but he'd hoped to have July free, at the very least, while awaiting the results of his NEWTs. With Wizarding economics as they were, however, he couldn't afford to be too choosy.

He dressed in the fine robes Berry, their house-elf, had readied for him the night before. She had a proper fry-up waiting as well. "Master Cedric can't go to his interview on an empty stomach," she told him, bringing out bacon and scrambled eggs, sausages and sautéed potatoes, tomatoes and mushrooms, along with toast and Marmite, and strong black tea.

"I can't eat all this!" he told her, laughing, even as his father entered and inspected his plate.

"Perhaps I ought to take that Ministry job back, if I'd get a breakfast like this."

"Berry will bring Master Amos breakfast too." And she scurried back into the kitchen as his father sat down, studying Cedric. "You ready, son?"

"As much as I'll ever be. You're sure you don't want back in the depart- "

"No," his father interrupted. "I have the job I want, and with you out of school, I can take the risk. Now, if the Ministry will coordinate with me on the rescue of abused pets, I'm all ears, but I'm not holding my breath - and I don't want my old job back. I'd rather not deal with the bloody paperwork."

Cedric smiled. His father wasn't the most patient of men.

Berry emerged with a second plate for his father - minus some of the greasier elements - "Mistress Lucy says Master Amos doesn't need bacon or sausage or potatoes."

Cedric had to grin at his father's disgruntled face. "We all know who gives the final orders in this house," he said, poking at his poached egg. Cedric had pulled out parchment and a quill, writing back to Hermione between bites. "Who's that for?" his father asked.

"Hermione."

"Mmm. What does she think of all this?"

"That Scrimgeour wants to use me."

"Clever little witch."

"She is, at that," Cedric admitted, folding the note. It wasn't long - mostly a reassurance that he'd be back to the Grangers by that evening, and perhaps by that afternoon. "How often do you and mum quarrel?" Cedric asked his father as he returned to his overfull plate and slipped Esiban a slice of bacon beneath the table.

His father raised an eyebrow. "Trouble in paradise?"

"I'm not sure I'd say _trouble_," Cedric replied. "Just . . . this whole interview. She didn't even want me to go. Sometimes we don't see eye-to-eye at all, you know?"

"Ah." His father smiled around a bite of tomato. "Wouldn't you find it boring if you did? A lot depends on what you disagree about, son - how much it matters - but also on how you argue. If you can argue to a settlement and not keep dragging it back up, well, that's all right. If you sweep it under the rug and let it fester, it could erupt on you later, right?"

Cedric nodded. He and Hermione didn't tend to drag old grievances into new arguments, but he also had to admit that sometimes they didn't bury those old hatchets so much as hide them. Perhaps he should worry about that, but he wasn't sure if they were the sort of hatchets that they needed to worry about.

Not long after, Cedric left for the Ministry. His father offered him company but he declined. He needed to make this trip himself, and Apparated to an alleyway to access the visitor's entrance - and not just because he was a visitor. Flooing required him to sit, and he didn't come out the other side gracefully. If he did take a job at the Ministry, he'd likely always have to enter through the phone booth as anti-Apparition spells prevented one from appearing directly inside the Ministry, although - as Cedric, Harry and their friends had discovered to their dismay - it didn't prevent anyone from Apparating around once inside the barrier.

Cedric glanced out of the alley, spotting the now-somewhat-familiar pub, wall full of graffiti, and broken-down red phone booth. As nonchalantly as a man on crutches could do, he made his way over to the latter, slipped inside and dialed 62442**:** m-a-g-i-c. "Welcome to the Ministry of Magic. Please state your name and business," came the voice of the Welcome Witch.

"Cedric Diggory. I've a job interview with the Minister."

He waited, and before long his visitor's badge appeared out of the coin dispenser. Resting his weight on one crutch, he used his free hand to pin it on awkwardly as the booth began to lower. He'd just affixed it when the booth-lift stopped, door opening to let him exit into the atrium. He was a bit early, but even so, most workers were already in their offices and the atrium wasn't as busy as he recalled from the previous August when he'd come to attend Harry's trial. He glanced up at the bright, royal blue ceiling with its gold runes and astrological symbols floating across, and considered. He'd brought his wheelchair in case he needed it, but also because (frankly) he thought he appeared more graceful in it and wasn't beyond vanity. Yet it put him below eye level for most, and he recognized that such a small thing could matter. That was why his shoes were shined, his hair neatly combed, and his chin close-shaven. Today, he decided, he would walk, even if the atrium hall was long and he'd likely be out of breath by the time he arrived at the lifts. He'd have a few moments on the ride up to recover. His gaze moved from the ceiling to the high wall of glass in the distance at the atrium rear. He wondered which office window was the Minister's, then began to make his way across the floor: clump, scrape, clump, scrape. People looked at him, then looked away quickly.

Finally reaching the end past the fountain, he approached the security desk. Eric Munch, on duty as usual in robes that matched the ceiling, nodded to him. Cedric started to present his wand, but Munch just waved him through. "The Minister said to expect you, Mr. Diggory. You go on up. First floor, left - the Minister's office is at the end of the corridor."

"Thank you," Cedric replied, clumping through the gate towards the lifts at the back. Some woman he didn't know held the door for him. "Thank you," he said again, a bit out of breath.

"You must be Cedric Diggory." She peered up at him through owl-round glasses. "You're every bit as handsome as your pictures in the paper - but taller in person." Cedric smiled, wondering if it wasn't inevitable that one be taller in person than in a photo, but still took her meaning. "What are you here for today, if you don't mind an old lady being nosey?" But she went on before he could open his mouth to reply. "I'm Georgina Smythe, Accidental Magic Reversal Squad. You may have heard a letter of mine read recently on WWN's _Toots, Shoots n' Roots_." She fluttered her fingers, looking both pleased and embarrassed. "I was _so_ surprised. Nothing like your fame, of course, but my little fifteen minutes. Tilden Toots is _such_ a lovely man, but he's married to that Daisy Hookum - the one who spent a year as a Muggle and wrote a book about it. Can't imagine why she'd do such a thing - a bit mental, if you asked me. I'm sure he could do better."

Cedric should probably have been amused at the not-so-subtle envy, but her casual bigotry left him cold instead. "I've spent some time in a Muggle house - my girlfriend's parents, you see," he said. "It was fascinating, really."

Her glass-magnified eyes grew even larger as she stared at him in surprise, then she fluttered her fingers once more. "Well, you're young and in love. It must seem like a great adventure right now, but trust me, young man - living without magic isn't something you'd want to do. What are you here for today again?"

Wishing the woman would just get to her floor and leave, he replied, "I've a job interview." He saw no reason to tell her where.

Fortunately, the lift stopped and the doors opened - "Level three," a disembodied woman's voice said, and Mrs. Smythe didn't have time to continue her friendly inquisition. Instead, she reached out as if to pump his hand, then realized her error and patted his arm above the crutch instead. "Good luck to you, Mr. Diggory. I'm sure a young wizard of your talents won't have any problem with employment."

He was solemn for the short ride to the top floor, disquieted by her attitude. Whatever jealousy drove her dislike for Hookum, it was her disdain for Muggles that had bothered him. That had been offhand and casual, as if she assumed everybody shared it. "Ignorant old witch," he muttered, thumping off the lift when the grill doors clanged open on level one.

It was quiet here, the carpets a rich purple decorated with tiny gold symbols like those on the ceiling in the atrium, the walls an unassuming cream, the doors highly polished wood with brass plaques bearing the office or name of the occupant behind them. Left down the corridor, Munch had said, so Cedric set off. He saw no one, and there seemed to be no directing signs - the assumption being that anyone with business on this floor already knew where he was going.

Cedric hadn't quite reached the end when the door opened and none other than Rufus Scrimgeour himself emerged. Cedric recognized him from his picture in _The Prophet_. He wasn't as tall as Cedric, but broader with a slow grace and a mane of greying, tawny hair. Cedric thought him a man comfortable with authority. "Mr. Diggory," he said, but didn't make Smythe's mistake of offering a hand. Instead he gestured through the open door. "You're early, but please come in."

"Thank you," Cedric said. "And I've learned to allow extra time in case I need it."

Scrimgeour just nodded, neither embarrassed nor unctuously sympathetic. Cedric appreciated that matter-of-factness.

Perhaps a dozen secretaries and other functionaries occupied the large outer office, so it said something, Cedric thought, that Scrimgeour had been waiting for him personally. No doubt Munch had warned the Minister that Cedric was on the way up, but it looked increasingly as if Hermione and Dumbledore were correct. Scrimgeour wanted Cedric working at the Ministry.

The question was whether Cedric could make that work for him, and the Order too.

"Tea?" Scrimgeour asked as he ushered Cedric into his office, a grand thing with wide windows that overlooked the Atrium directly above the central gate in the golden archway. Scrimgeour walked over to a sideboard with a tea set pushed up against the glass.

"Tea would be lovely, thank you," Cedric replied, still standing politely.

Scrimgeour noticed. "Oh, please - have a seat, Diggory. There's politeness and then there's practicality; you'll find that I prefer the latter. Sugar? Milk? And poured before or after?"

Cedric took one of the two large red leather chairs, shrinking his crutches to tuck them into a pocket of his robes. "What type of tea is it?"

Scrimgeour grinned. "There speaks a true Englishman. Indian Assam, this."

"Sugar and milk both then. And shouldn't the milk always go in first?" Cedric was puzzled.

"Quite right," Scrimgeour replied, "prevents curdling."

Cedric wondered at such an odd test - and it had been a test - but supposed all bosses had their quirks. After a bit, Scrimgeour floated over Cedric's cup and saucer, which Cedric accepted, rather glad of something to do with his hands. Scrimgeour settled himself behind his desk and just watched Cedric, sipping his own tea. The scrutiny lasted a full minute but Cedric held his tongue. He had no idea what the Minister actually wanted and it seemed best to let Scrimgeour speak first.

Finally, Scrimgeour said only, "You're your mother's son."

"I beg your pardon?"

"You don't chatter like a magpie." Then Scrimgeour sat forward, setting down the teacup to shift papers about on his desk until he found the file he wanted, opening it to study the contents. "You're quite the impressive young man all around, Mr. Diggory: high marks in classes; a reputation for fairness and honesty; positions as prefect, Quidditch Captain, then Head Boy - not to mention your selection as a Triwizard Champion." Scrimgeour looked up. "You also have a natural charisma about you - people notice when you pass by."

Blushing, Cedric said, "Well I suppose, on the crutches, I'm a bit hard to miss."

"That's not at all what I mean." Standing, Scrimgeour walked to the window and looked out and down. "I watched you arrive, Mr. Diggory. One can tell a lot about a man when he doesn't know he's being observed - how he moves, stands, interacts with strangers. You don't slouch, crutches or no crutches. You keep your head up and you don't look away when somebody meets your eyes. Such a man either possesses great confidence or great arrogance. With you, I don't think it's the latter." He turned back to look at Cedric.

And Cedric didn't know quite how to reply. If Scrimgeour were buttering him up as Hermione had claimed, he sounded awfully frank, just as in his letter. Could that be part of the act? Blunt praise seemed more honest than obsequiousness. Yet perhaps it _was_ honest. Cedric wanted to give the man the benefit of the doubt, so now he said only, "Thank you."

Scrimgeour nodded and resumed his seat, holding up a sheet of paper. "These are your NEWT scores."

Cedric's mouth dropped opened - which reaction seemed to amuse Scrimgeour. "I know pupils rarely expect to see these until early August at the soonest," the Minister continued. "Markers do tackle the NEWT scripts first as employers are waiting for them, and fortunately, the letter 'D' is early in the alphabet. Yours were already done when my office owled the Wizarding Examinations Authority. They sent the scores right over - a little executive privilege." The Minister's smile was wry, but Cedric thought he might have liked boasting a bit.

"These results are exceptional." Looking down at the paper, he read**: ** "Transfigurations and Advanced Transfigurations, O in both - perhaps predictably; I've heard about your reputation in the subject. Then we have Charms, O; Herbology, O; Muggle Studies, O. History of Magic, E, and Defense Against the Dark Arts, E. I have a note here that says your History of Magic is an E only because you failed to answer the final question - but unless I'm much mistaken, that's the exam you submitted early in order to try to stop Mr. Potter from being tricked by You Know Who, isn't it?"

Cedric only nodded, still a bit speechless at his results. Scrimgeour continued. "I have little doubt History of Magic would also have been an O, if you'd completed the exam. I'll be certain to tell the Authority to strike that last question and assess you on the completed material - "

"Sir, it was my own choice, it wouldn't be fair - "

"Extenuating circumstances, Mr. Diggory. Due to the disturbances at Hogwarts on Wednesday night, the graders have been directed to grant the OWL students a similar grace with regard to their Astronomy exam. Students can hardly be faulted for what is beyond their control. You're not being singled out for special treatment."

Cedric subsided, although he still suspected that Scrimgeour was doing him an intentional favor.

"In any case, we'll assume the end result will be six Os and one E. With results like those, you can virtually name your job." He paused and Cedric wondered if the Minister were expecting him to do just that, but he didn't. He just sipped cooling tea and held his tongue once more, waiting. When he didn't reply, Scrimgeour smiled. "Most eighteen-year-olds would be babbling like greedy baboons at that. I like that you don't."

Cedric lowered the teacup and spoke carefully. "As you invited me here, sir, I assumed you had a particular position to offer?"

"So I do, so I do - although a rather non-specific one. The Minister's office has several 'personal assistant' positions attached with flexible job descriptions, depending on what's needed. I've let some of Fudge's go, and I want you to fill one of those vacancies. It's a golden opportunity for a young wizard just out of school - a chance to work right at the heart of the Ministry, see how it's all run. And it offers a competitive salary too, let me add."

Lips pursed minutely, Cedric sipped tea to give himself a moment. The offer wasn't unexpected. In his conversation with Dumbledore the day before, the Headmaster had warned it was likely one of these amorphous jobs he'd be offered**:** "They can be anything or nothing - a glorified gofer in most cases, usually reserved for young Ministry employees looking for eventual, higher administrative posts. Yet those who fill them rarely escape the Minister's office to other departments. In truth, most don't want to leave - but it _is_ something to be aware of."

Cedric understood he'd have to pay his dues like anyone else but had no desire to be caught in a dead-end generalist's job; he'd been giving thought to a counter-proposal if he were offered one. Lowering his tea cup again, he sent it and the saucer to the edge of the Minister's desk with a wave of his hand. "Minister, what sort of work did you have in mind for me as your assistant?"

Scrimgeour tipped his grizzled head, like a quizzical cat. "I'd thought a bit of morale boosting, perhaps - your charisma and obvious self-confidence would lend itself to reassuring others."

_Ah_, Cedric thought, _that's why Scrimgeour made those observations earlier. _He felt himself deflate just a bit, but didn't let it show.

"Reassurance is just what our people need in this dark hour, Diggory," Scrimgeour was saying. "You've stood your ground against He Who Must Not Be Named - people trust you. I think you have a natural gift for public relations, don't you?"

Cedric wondered just what Scrimgeour wanted him to reassure people about? Certainly he hoped the new Minister would be more effective than the old, but things weren't looking good in general, and Cedric wasn't inclined to lie to people just to make them feel better.

He didn't say any of that. He had something else in mind and preferred to redirect Scrimgeour rather than confront him. "I might," he said, "be of better service in another area."

That got Scrimgeour's attention. He must not have thought Cedric actually had any thoughts of his own. "And that is?" The question wasn't sharp, not exactly, but it was clear the Minister wasn't used to having his suggestions dismissed, however politely - even while he was curious as to what Cedric might say.

Cedric cleared his throat. "Minister, you may not be aware, but I have some familiarity with the Muggle world."

"Ah, yes, your lovely and clever girlfriend, Ms. Granger. She's Muggle-born, is she not?"

Cedric nodded, although he was sure the Minister well knew Hermione to be Muggle-born. He'd put far too much effort into preparing for this interview to miss something that public. "But as evinced by taking a NEWT in Muggle Studies, I have an interest in Muggle matters that extends beyond Hermione.

"It's occurred to me," he continued, "that it must be quite a challenge to keep track of possible strikes by Death Eaters against Muggles. The Brockdale Bridge was obvious, but other suspicious events like that entire family of Muggles murdered in Kent have been less so." Cedric and Hermione had kept a close watch on the papers. "It went unnoticed by the Ministry for almost a week until Amelia Bones' death, when it turned out one of her brothers' Squib daughters had married into them."

Scrimgeour's lips twitched. "You're well read, Mr. Diggory."

"I, er, like newspapers, sir."

"So it would seem. But what does this have to do with your proposal?"

"I could comb Muggle papers and other media, then supply your office with summary reports - things you should be aware of happening among Muggles. A sort of . . . junior press secretary."

Both Scrimgeour's shaggy eyebrows had risen. He looked as if he wasn't sure if he were more impressed by Cedric's initiative, or more annoyed. "I have a press secretary," he said.

"Oh, I know, sir. I wasn't suggesting that I make public statements for the Minister's office; I'm well aware I'm not senior enough for such a position. I'd merely collect and organize relevant information from the Muggle press." Cedric kept his eyes modestly lowered, fingers crossed inside his fist, while Scrimgeour mulled it over. He was banking on the fact the Minister hadn't had a specific job in mind beyond trotting him out as a Name attache for public relations. He was offering to do something productive instead, and hoped the carrot was appealing enough.

Apparently, it was. "All right," Scrimgeour said. "I don't believe this office has ever had a position quite like the one you've suggested, but I'm not afraid of a little innovation. And with You Know Who out there terrorizing people, wizard and Muggle alike, it couldn't hurt to have another pair of eyes looking for clues. The quicker this office can respond to disturbances, even Muggle disturbances, the more on top of things we'll appear, and we need to keep our people reassured that we're not a bunch of incompetents."

Cedric bit his tongue, refraining from asking if the Minister only wanted to avoid seeming incompetent or wanted to avoid _being_ incompetent. It would have been unforgivably cheeky - especially if this man was about to become his boss.

Besides, Cedric had an ulterior motive for remaining on Scrimgeour's good side. Since hearing Charles and Helen Granger talk about Muggle world problems, he'd given thought to the need for the Ministry to pay better attention to Muggles. He'd mentioned this, obliquely, to Dumbledore the day before, earning a keen look from the Headmaster before Dumbledore had smiled. "I think you're quite right, Cedric. Our Muggle brethren deserve more than our disdain, although I fear most wizards wouldn't share your view. Traditionally, our Muggle-borns leave that world in order to adopt ours, and Squibs feel exiled to a lesser existence rather than a different one." Dumbledore had paused. "Did you have something in mind beyond the observation?"

He did. _This _was what he had in mind, this proposal. If the Ministry had departments to handle the misuse of Muggle artefacts or Obliviate Muggles exposed to magical incidents accidentally, so far as Cedric knew, not a single department or official was charged with keeping track of _their_ news and current affairs. If not the job in International Relations he'd once intended to apply for, it was closer to the role he wanted to fill someday than reviewing international trade agreements on imports and exports.

Now, Scrimgeour said, "If we make this new position for you, I doubt it would take all your time. You'd still be able to handle some public relations appearances." He hurried on before Cedric could even open his mouth to object. "What shall we call you, Diggory? We could just keep 'personal assistant,' but perhaps a better title presents? Advisor to the Minister on Muggle Affairs? Yes, I think that will do. Two more questions. One, when can you start, and two, what will you need? I'm afraid I haven't got a bloody clue what would be involved in following the Muggle press beyond subscriptions to a lot of newspapers."

Blinking and feeling a little overwhelmed by how quickly Scrimgeour was moving, Cedric decided to tackle the last question first - and not just in case the proposal stalled on his list of resources. He also wanted to see if he couldn't put off starting until next week. He wanted a few more carefree days with Hermione.

Taking out his parchment list, he Levitated it across the table to the Minister. "You did come prepared, didn't you?" Scrimgeour asked.

"I try to be efficient, Minister."

"I like that. But I'm afraid you're going to have to explain to me what much of this is."

"Yes, sir. The biggest, well, hurdle, would be electricity. If possible, I'll need an office that has Muggle electricity, as well as a telephone line. I understand that might be a bit . . . unorthodox, but Muggles have a wide variety of media sources besides newspapers - "

Scrimgeour was waving it off, unconcerned. "It can be arranged. Your office will be up here where a tap into the Muggles' electrical services won't pose a problem. Continue."

"Yes, sir." Cedric let out his breath; getting electricity had been the main issue. "The rest is rather straightforward. As you mentioned, I'd need subscriptions to various newspapers. I could have those delivered to a Muggle post office where I'd pick them up - "

"Or have them fetched. Let's be practical - you'll need a secretary. Continue."

"The other four things I need are a television, a radio of the Muggle sort, a computer, and a telephone. The television, radio and computer just need electricity, but hooking up a telephone line might be a bit more tricky."

"I'll put Arthur Weasley on it; he likes these Muggle things."

"Er" - Cedric struggled not to look appalled - "I'm not certain this is something Mr. Weasley is familiar with. But I may . . . I may know some people who could help."

"All right, Diggory, I'll leave it to you. I assume you'll require a regular operating budget plus additional funds for set up?"

"Er - yes, sir."

"Get me an itemized budget by Friday." Scrimgeour waved at a quill, which stood up and started writing on spare parchment. "In the meantime, take this to the business office to file a requisitions work order so the paperwork's begun. It's not likely to be something they can order for you so you'll have to buy the things yourself, then submit receipts. I trust you not to waste the taxpayer's money on what you don't need." Scrimgeour's frown verged on a glower, but it seemed more for show, and Cedric was just a bit surprised at how quickly and easily all this was happening. He'd been prepared to explain each piece of equipment to the Minister, how it was used, and justify his need for it.

"Do you, er, do you want to know how any of these function, Minister?"

Scrimgeour actually snorted. "Isn't that the point of having _you_? You know how to work these machines, right?" Well, more or less; Cedric didn't want to admit his own naïvéte. "I don't care how the machines _work_, Diggory, as long as I understand the results you're submitting. Again - pragmatism. Like I said, I'm a great fan of it."

"Yes, sir." Cedric noticed that Scrimgeour had gone from calling him "Mr." to calling him only by last name. The wooing was over, and Cedric hoped he hadn't just made a mistake.

Scrimgeour's first set of orders was finished and he signed it, sending the paper sailing across to Cedric while the quill wrote up a second. "Now, in just a moment, I'll take you out to meet my personal secretary, Aurelia Goldstein and she'll start paperwork for your employment records." He scribbled something by hand on another slip parchment, Levitating that to Cedric as well. "That's your starting salary, unless you have an objection." But he didn't give Cedric time to object, well aware it was better than most offers Cedric could hope for. "Aurelia will take you down to Maintenance, so they can arrange for your office needs." Scrimgeour lowered his chin. "I want you to be completely candid with the Maintenance Wizards, Diggory. Not much sense in hiring you if you can't get through your own door, is there?" Cedric shook his head. "It'll no doubt take a day or two to ready things here, but that shouldn't stop you from starting tomorrow if you've alternative access to these Muggle resources - "

"Er, I don't," Cedric interrupted, if politely. He was starting to feel railroaded. "And, um, really, it might take more than a few days to get everything I'll need . . . "

"Very well - how about next Monday then? I don't like to dawdle once a decision's made; you'll find that out about me, Diggory. I'm sure Voldemort isn't sitting around twiddling his thumbs, and I don't either. Information is key, so as soon as you can start providing it for me, the better."

Cedric suppressed a smile. Scrimgeour spoke now as if having Cedric research Muggle media had been his idea from the start, but Cedric didn't care, just hoped he wouldn't be disappointed. Cedric's real plan was to educate the Minister on Muggle current events, but doubted Scrimgeour thought that worth his time. So Cedric would need to find sufficient information about Death Eater attacks on Muggles too. "I'll start some preliminary searches and reviews this week," he said, "and pass on anything that might be of use. But it may not be until mid-next week before I'm really up and running." That wasn't Monday; he hoped the Minister wasn't angry.

Apparently not. "Fine, fine. Now" - Scrimgeour stood, collecting the second parchment before coming around the desk - "let's go and meet your new colleagues." Not even waiting as Cedric retrieved his crutches, Scrimgeour crossed to his door and threw it open, speaking briskly, "Aurelia! Come and meet Mr. Diggory . . . !"

* * *

><p>Hermione felt as if her morning had lasted half the afternoon while she awaited Cedric's return, trying to read or to write letters, first to Harry; then to Ginny; then yet a third to Viktor, with whom she still kept in contact. The longer Cedric's interview seemed to take, the more she worried. Either it hadn't gone well and he'd returned to his home to lick his wounds in private, or it had gone well and . . . and what? Would the Minister put him to work immediately? Surely not. Truth was, a part of her <em>hoped<em> it went badly. She was concerned about just what the Minister had in mind for Cedric, not to mention she was a bit . . . jealous. Of course she wanted him to find a job, but had hoped it wouldn't be until after she returned to school. With only a month or so left before they'd be separated for months on end, she was a miser for time.

She became so engrossed with her letter writing that she did, in fact, miss his return until the back door popped open - making her jump half a foot in the air. He'd barely got inside on crutches before she was on him, hugging his neck. "You look exhausted!" she said.

His smile was wry as she led him to a chair at the kitchen table, pulling it out for him. "I think I just walked the length and breadth of the Ministry," he said, "_three times._"

She hurried into the kitchen to get him a Tizer from the cupboard. He liked fizzy Muggle drinks but she couldn't imagine how he stomached that red stuff. To her, it tasted like oversweet battery acid. He finished most of it in one long guzzle. "So?" she asked.

Setting down the can, he undid his cravat, tossing it onto the table and unhooking the front of his robes - dark maroon ones she'd never seen before - to shrug them off. "So I've joined the ranks of the gainfully employed."

Skeptical, she asked. "What's he going to have you do?"

"That's the interesting part." He lifted the can again, and took another drink before meeting her eyes. His lips were twitching. "You're looking at the new Advisor to the Minister on Muggle Affairs."

"Huh?" She blinked. "You're the . . . wait, I didn't think there was any such position?"

"There wasn't. There is now."

"You - There - How did - _What_ are you going to be doing for him?" she finished finally.

He proceeded to explain what he'd talked the Minister into - both what the Minister assumed he'd be doing as well as what he actually had in mind - and she felt a great rush of pride in him, but also of apprehension. Her boy - her _man_ - was brilliant, but . . . "What if Voldemort doesn't actually attack any Muggles?"

"Oh, he will," Cedric replied, finishing the drink. "He can't resist it, Hermione, he or his Death Eaters. It'd be like telling the hunter he can't go after foxes in the field. Baiting and attacking Muggles is _sport_ to these people. He'll do it again. I just hope I recognize it when I see a report about it. But now I need to go out and buy all this . . . stuff - a telly, a computer, newspaper subscriptions." He looked at her at bit pitifully. "Help?"

Hermione snatched a notepad to scribble a list of leading newspapers and magazines on one side, and a list of equipment on the other. "You said you have an expense account?"

"Yes. The financial secretary said I can go down to Gringotts tomorrow morning and withdraw Muggle money, although there's a cap on the amount until I submit an itemized budget. I have five thousand pounds at my disposal for now."

Hermione wasn't sure whether to start in shock or roll her eyes. "Cedric, if you walk into an electronics store carrying that much cash, they'll be _really_ suspicious." She looked up. "I think you need a Muggle bank account first of all."

"How do I get one of those?"

They spent the rest of the afternoon until her parents returned, strategizing. "Dad," she called almost before her parents were through the front door. "Who's that fellow who helped you set up your home computer?"

Curious, Mr. Granger came over to the table. "Jim Lowe. Why?"

And Hermione, with input from Cedric, explained Cedric's new job. Both her parents seemed very interested. "Well," her father said, seating himself, "Jim's a good bloke, but he's not like Brenda and Phil. He thinks Hermione's off at a special boarding school for the gifted - which she is - but we left out the 'for magic' bit. We could probably just pass off Cedric as technologically challenged, but there are some other issues here." He met Cedric's eyes. "Are you really sure the people putting electricity in your office know what they're doing? If not - if it's not properly grounded and laid - you could either wind up frying your new equipment or electrocuting yourself."

Hermione hadn't even considered that, and Cedric blinked in surprise. "Er, the Minister seemed to think it could be done," he said.

"According to you, the Minister assumes he can just tap into power cables and siphon off what he wants. But you need a certified electrician to do the wiring or a mislaid wire could burn down the whole Ministry if it catches. Same thing with a phone line. You not only need a vacant cable pair, you also have to be connected to switches at a local exchange and have a telephone company assign you a phone number."

"Oh." Cedric seemed to deflate, and Hermione reached over to squeeze his hand.

"Now, it's not impossible, lad," her father continued, "it's just a little more complicated than you may've thought. And it's almost certainly going to involve Muggles coming into the Ministry to do this work - not to mention it'll be expensive."

Cedric's face appeared even more alarmed now. "If this gets too complicated, he might not let me do it at all - "

Hermione's father held up a hand. "I've a simpler solution to suggest. Why don't you just have the Ministry rent you a small studio office in the neighborhood above the - "

He got no further because a sharp knock came on the back door and Hermione's mother rose to answer, gasping slightly at the twinkle-eyed, purple-robed, white-bearded man on the other side. "Professor Dumbledore!" she said.

"I hope you don't mind my dropping by, Helen," he said, sounding cheerful. "I hoped to speak to Mr. Diggory."

"No, no - please come in. Cedric was just telling us he got a job."

"Yes, I heard about his job; that's why I'm here."

Of course he'd heard; if Hermione didn't know better, she'd think Dumbledore omniscient. In truth, he just had good spies. The Headmaster entered the small dining area, seeming to fill it up with his height and pointed hat and long beard. "Charles," he said, shaking her father's hand.

"Please have a seat," her father said. "I was explaining to Cedric what he'd need for the equipment he has in mind. I assume your Ministry doesn't already have electricity?"

"Oh, no, no, quite right - no electricity," Dumbledore said, pulling out a chair even as Hermione handed him their list of things. He tilted his head to read through his glasses, lips pursed. "I fear I've got not the slightest idea what most of these things are." Chuckling, he gave her the list back and now studied Cedric over the top of his glasses. "I came to congratulate Mr. Diggory on securing an innovation in Ministry positions." Dumbledore seemed amused. "I also wanted to say that I believe I know somebody who can help with the technical details."

Cedric let out a deep sigh. "Oh, thank goodness. From what Hermione's father was saying, I was starting to think the Minister would breathe fire when I explained."

"Oh, it won't be that complicated. You see, Ted Tonks is Muggle-born, and his father happens to be a Master Builder - retired now, as you may imagine, but Ted Tonks senior knows all about witches and wizards . . . and electricity too." Dumbledore's grin was impish. "I took the liberty of dropping by his residence earlier this afternoon; he seems to think he could wire up your office, although he did warn that the work would require Ted's brother who now owns the company, as he didn't think he'd be able to manage crawlspaces like he used to. Even Ted can help, as he's learned some things over the years - and he can repair the walls once his brother and father are done cutting holes in them." Dumbledore chuckled.

In fact, the Headmaster seemed quite pleased by the entire prospect, as if putting electricity into the Ministry were a great adventure. He explained Tonks senior's plans, then asked, "Now, that telephone line you requested is more of a problem. How badly do you need one?"

"Well, I don't really need it to ring up people, but Dr. Granger uses the phone line to get to the . . . to this thing called 'the internet.'"

"Ah - Mr. Tonks thought that might be the case and suggested - or rather his son suggested - something they call an" - he pulled out a scrap of parchment - "'a category-five ethernet cable.' Yes, that was it."

Dr. Granger was nodding. "That'd be a good sight faster too, and if they can piggyback for electricity, then - "

"- they can do the same for the ethernet, or that seems to be the plan," Dumbledore said, eyes practically glittering with delight. "Ted Tonks senior seems to think they can have your office ready for you a week from tomorrow. Will that give you time to purchase your equipment?"

Cedric glanced quizzically at Hermione, who glanced at her father. "We've an appointment with Brenda tomorrow evening," her father said, "and I do need to work during the day . . . "

"I can stay through the weekend, if that's more convenient for shopping - and you and Helen don't mind," Cedric said.

Hermione's mother was shaking her head. "We don't mind in the least."

Cedric nodded. "Then Hermione and I will go to my parents on Monday."

"Why don't you come back here on Tuesday night," Hermione's father was saying. "You may as well leave the computer with us and I'll, er, try to do some set up for you, then we can go over it a bit on Tuesday and" - he glanced at Dumbledore - "do you think this Ted Tonks would be able to help Cedric set up the telly and radio on Wednesday? I would, but I've got several appointments, including a major jaw surgery . . . "

"I dare say Ted senior would be _delighted_ to have something to do. I'm not sure retirement quite agrees with him. Poor Cedric may have to evict him from his office to get any work done."

Hermione's father and mother seemed to find that amusing, but Hermione frowned faintly. It felt . . . surreal . . . to be plotting a collision between her birth world and adopted world when for the past five years, she'd struggled to adapt and adopt and _not_think like a Muggle. Now all of a sudden, being a Muggle might prove useful. Yet she felt disenfranchised. She was no better with a computer than Cedric, and, for the first time, wondered if perhaps she shouldn't brush up on such things? It would be embarrassing if Cedric got more adept with them than she was.

* * *

><p><strong>Notes:<strong> Ted Tonks' father is for Meg. Regarding Scrimgeour and my presentation of him - one must remember that the books are seen through Harry's eyes and we must balance his assessment. With Scrimgeour, we do at least get to see him once through the eyes of Prime Minister Major, which helps. While not necessarily a good guy, he's also not a bad guy. Harry is young, and his expectations aren't realistic. Likewise, we know Dumbledore likes his secrets and rarely tells anybody more than he thinks they need to know. I can easily see how Scrimgeour (or Fudge before him) might find that infuriating, especially as Scrimgeour is an old Auror and like many police detectives, may see undue secrecy as suspect. Scrimgeour also seems to be a man who likes to control situations. Naturally they'd clash. My biggest clue to Scrimgeour's true nature (and strength) comes from his _death_, when he apparently refused to give up Harry despite torture . . . and also despite the fact Harry had been repeatedly rude to him. In the end, as Harry realizes, Scrimgeour died heroically. I think that, like Snape, Scrimgeour is meant to be seen as more complicated than simple 'bad' or 'good.' He's self-confident, self-assured, doesn't like to be caught in an error (as with Shunpike), does like to seem blunt and straightforward - but is more shrewd and even manipulative than he lets on.


	4. Sandcastles

"I may have some good news for you," Aunt Brenda said as Hermione, Cedric and Hermione's parents arrived at her surgery on Thursday evening after hours. Cedric's parents weren't with them. He'd wanted to hear any news first himself.

Chit-chatting about the unnaturally cool weather and the impending opening of the Summer Olympic Games in Atlanta, Brenda led them into a long, narrow consultation room where the four doctors in her practice had vending machines and a table, as well as a fluorescent lightbox, a projector screen, and a small reference library. It was chilly and Hermione rubbed her arms, wishing for a light sweater and wondering how much good there really was in Aunt Brenda's news. She was afraid to hope, and had kept silent during the small talk. So, she noticed, had Cedric and she exchanged a glance with him. His face was solemn, his stare hard. She'd come to realize it meant he was nervous or uncertain, not angry. She squeezed his shoulder and he gave her a small smile that wasn't genuine.

Aunt Brenda bustled around at the front of the room a moment, then plopped down a manila folder on the table in front of her and said, "Due to the nature of Cedric's somewhat liminal legal status, I've had to be careful in my consultations. I'm a pediatrician by training, not a neurologist, but I've read up on neurology as well as I can and asked questions where I needed to. That's the obligatory disclaimer." She grinned at Cedric, who just nodded back.

Clicking her remote to lower the lights and turn on the lightbox, she pulled out Cedric's X-rays from the manila folder and snapped them up. With a laser pointer, she indicated an area on the spinal column. "See how that vertebra is slightly raised? A lesion on the spinal column there has pushed it out of position. That's the point of damage at what we call the second lumbar vertebra. It's very low, which is good news for Cedric as he won't have to contend with issues created by possible paralysis of the abdominal region or higher. We noticed during the neuro exam that he has problems sitting unassisted, which suggests some damage in the first lumbar vertebra as well, governing the hip region. But the bulk of the problems are restricted to his thighs and lower extremities.

"The oddity in this case - and why I'm reluctant to turn a real neurologist lose on him - is that Cedric's condition seems to combine spinal injury with nerve disease. That is, it acts like a weird merger of the two and any neurologist who sees these results is going to be flummoxed."

"So in the end, I can't be diagnosed by Muggle means?" Cedric asked. Hermione had come to stand behind him like a bulwark, her hands on his shoulders.

"Yes and no," Aunt Brenda replied. "It appears this curse has essentially formed a . . . block on the spinal column so the nerve degeneration can't pass that damaged section, trapping it below the spinal lesion. That really doesn't make any sense for how these diseases work, but I'm just going to accept it as a 'given' and look at what's manifesting below that block.

"My first thought," she went on, "when Charles described it, was multiple sclerosis, but after examining Cedric's MRI as well as the lumbar puncture and nerve conduction velocity results, it's looking less like MS and more like a slightly rarer condition called Guillain-Barre Syndrome. They're similar enough that GBS patients are sometimes initially misdiagnosed with MS, but what ticked me off in this case was the rapid onset of the condition, those severe nerve attacks Cedric suffers, and the fact his sensation is dulled in certain respects."

"But it's not," Cedric said, confused. He'd leaned forward in his seat. "I mean my sensation isn't dulled. I still feel everything . . . or I would if not for the pain medication."

"Actually you don't feel everything. You still feel _pain_, yes. In fact, you appear to have slight hyperalgesia - that is, excessive skin sensitivity. Some things bother you _more_ than normal. But we tested you with regard to a number of things, and your nerves are not properly registering other sensations - namely cold and heat. This is of concern because it means you could accidentally scald yourself, or get frostbite. Never put your feet and legs into water you haven't tested first with your hands. At this point, it's still minor, but the problem could increase with time."

Hermione blinked. She'd never even considered something like that, just assumed sensation was sensation. Apparently not.

"Now," Aunt Brenda was saying, "GBS is a disorder wherein antibodies attack the peripheral nerves - those beyond the brain and spinal column - causing inflammation. In layman's terms, the body's own system for battling diseases begins attacking itself. We don't know why, but the end result is increasing damage to the nerves as - essentially - the antibodies eat away the nerve casings and in some cases like yours, also the axon, or nerve connection itself. It causes muscle weakness and sensory disturbances - which in plain speak usually means tingling, a pins-and-needles sensation, stiffness, cramping, as well as deep muscle pain, especially in the large muscles of the thighs and lower back. Sound familiar?" She looked at Cedric, who just nodded.

"Over time, as more and more axons are damaged, the patient goes from feeling severe pain to feeling _less_ sensation - that is, paralysis."

Cedric nodded again. This was, Hermione knew, more or less what the healers had told him at St. Mungo's, albeit in magical terms. Cedric's nerves were slowly being destroyed. "If you know what's causing it," she asked, speaking up for the first time, "it can be treated, right?"

"Maybe," Aunt Brenda allowed. "That's the good news I mentioned. I had Cedric's regeneration potion analyzed. It's a fairly sophisticated growth hormone, but only rebuilds nerves; it doesn't stop the cause. We can slow down the _cause_. One type of treatment, plasmapheresis is a mechanical process that removes the patient's blood a little at a time, runs it through a machine, cleans it up - gets rid of the bad antibodies - and returns it to the patient. It doesn't just rebuild nerves as they're eaten away, it stops the damage, at least for a few months. Combined with Cedric's potion, he might find himself recovering strength rather than losing it. The downside is that plasmapheresis is a day-long outpatient process, has some serious side-effects, and requires a catheter inserted under the collarbone on a permanent basis for the duration of the treatments."

"What's a catheter?" Cedric asked.

"A shunt inserted into your circulatory system - your veins and arteries - that allows us to give you medicine without poking holes in you over and over for IVs. Patients who spend a lot of time on IVs often have catheters to prevent bruising and vein collapse."

Hermione didn't miss Cedric's shudder or the paling of his skin. "You said this is just one type of treatment?" Hermione broke in.

"The other option," Aunt Brenda said, "is IVIg, or intravenous immunoglobulin therapy. It's easier to administer because it's just a short-term IV that replaces the bad antibodies with good ones from a donor. Normally, plasmaphersis is done first, then IVIg - you kill the bad antibodies then put in good ones. It lasts from one to three months Since we won't likely do PE for logistical reasons, the positive effects would be lessened, but combined with the regeneration potion he's already taking, it may still be sufficiently effective. Normally both these treatments only prevent further attacks; they can't repair what's been damaged. But in Cedric's case, his potion _does_ repair what's been damaged."

Hermione didn't think Cedric looked much happier at the prospect of bi-monthly IVs, but he made no comment. It was obviously preferable to a catheter, and Hermione wondered if Aunt Brenda had brought up the PE option first on purpose. After the prospect of what amounted to sophisticated dialysis every few months, merely getting an IV for a few hours was a piece of cake.

"In addition to this," Brenda said, "I think we can improve on Cedric's pain medicine." Cedric sat up at that. Degeneration progressed slowly, but pain was something he faced every day. "If that regeneration potion is years ahead of us, his pain medication isn't. For GBS, we can do better. We know how to target neuropathic pain of this type in particular.

"I'll prescribe a drug cocktail of muscle relaxants, antispasmodics, arthritis medicine and antidepressants for him in differing combinations until we hit on what works best. It won't eliminate the pain" - she looked right at Cedric - "and you'll still experience 'attacks' when the malfunctioning antibodies in your blood reach a critical point. But the idea is to keep those attacks to a minimum, hence suggesting the IVIg.

"Now, the best news of all. Unlike MS, GBS patients _do_ often recover - not all of them, and we're not sure _why_, but recovery _is_ a possibility. I'll be honest, however - involvement of the core nerve tissues, or axons, puts Cedric's chances lower than most, yet it happens."

Cedric was gripping the arms of his chair. "Recovery? They said that's not possible."

"Well, not as long as they're treating only the symptoms, not the cause. Be clear - it's far from a guarantee. But if nothing else, we may be able to halt the progression by a combination of your nerve regeneration and the IVIg treatment. Even if you never get better, you might at least not get any worse."

Cedric had closed his eyes. He looked as if he were trying to keep from hoping, and Hermione gripped both his shoulders, joy bubbling up inside her. For the first time since her parents had suggested that Aunt Brenda look at Cedric, she felt faith again in her Muggle roots. Maybe they really _could_ do what Wizarding medicine couldn't.

"How soon can we start these treatments?" Cedric asked, eyes opening again. There was a light in them that Hermione hadn't seen before, something like _greed_. Cedric had always seemed so mature about his loss, she hadn't realized until that very moment just how _much_ he must want to walk again.

Aunt Brenda grinned. "Well, I've been looking into that too. Keep in mind that I'm not promising anything, and even if there are results, it may not be evident for some _months _. . . "

It was another half hour before they left, Cedric weighed down with pamphlets and booklets and documentation. His expression, Hermione thought, was carefully blank, damped down again after that moment in the consultation room when she'd seen hope flare in him.

Her parents were chatting about the steps required, and how they might be able to slip by the bureaucratic hurdles to get treatment for Cedric without the involvement of a neurologist. They sounded upbeat, positive. Cedric wasn't really paying attention, just staring out the car's backseat window, her hand gripped in his, but loosely. Once or twice, her parents tried to engage him in their plans, and he answered politely but didn't elaborate.

When they reached home, Hermione set a kettle on the stove and fed Crookshanks while her parents and Cedric sat down at the kitchen table. Her father said, "You don't seem as enthusiastic as back at the surgery." The comment wasn't quite accusatory, but Hermione could tell her father was miffed.

"It's not that I don't . . . that I'm not - " He cut off abruptly, then said, "This might not work. I don't want to hope."

At his last words, Hermione felt something inside her curl up as if kicked.

"There's nothing wrong with hope, lad," her father said.

"It gets in the way," Cedric replied, almost sharply. "If I spend all my time and energy - and money - chasing blibbering humdingers, I won't actually get anything useful accomplished."

"Blibbering what?" Hermione's mother asked even as her father said, "I understand that. But there are reasonable chances and unreasonable ones. This isn't some imaginary possibility. People really do recover from GBS. Three-quarters of those affected do, in fact."

"But that's just it," Cedric said, speaking carefully. "I don't _have_ GBS. You all seem to be forgetting that. It may look like a disease to you, but it's a _curse_**: **Dark magic. That's a problem. Dark magic can't be healed like other things." Both her parents were staring at him now, wearing expressions full of doubt.

"At the surgery, I got caught up in all the talk about treatment too," he went on, "how she could treat the cause not just the symptoms . . . But see, that's exactly the problem. She _won't_ be treating the _cause_ because she can't. The cause is magical."

"But if this . . . curse . . . causes your body to attack itself just like GBS - "

"Being _like_ something isn't the same as being something." Cedric shook his head, lips pinched. "It may look like the disease or syndrome, but only from the waist down. If I really had GBS it'd be affecting all of me. That's what these papers say." He waved a pamphlet. "But it doesn't affect all of me, and that's why she can't send me to a neurologist, because what's happening to me won't make any sense. Not by your science. I don't _have _GBS," he said, more forcefully. "I was struck by a Nervoccido Curse. They're not the same thing."

Hermione could see the train wreck approaching but wasn't at all sure how to stop it. This was exactly what her parents stumbled over most - magic couldn't be_ explained_ scientifically. It was _magic_, and they didn't - really - believe in magic. Magic didn't obey the natural laws they were used to and they could only wrap their minds around it by overlooking the points where it didn't compute. In the end, that wasn't satisfactory and Cedric had just called them on it, even if he didn't realize what he'd done.

Her mother's lips were pursed and her father . . . her father was angry, although when Charles Granger was angry, his face went expressionless. As did his voice**: **"So you don't even want to try the treatments? After all that?"

Sensing danger, Cedric frowned. "I didn't say that. I just . . . I don't want to hope too much."

Hermione's father rose from the table. "Hope is the best cure of all, Cedric. I've seen it again and again. Patients without hope don't heal." And he headed out of the room - probably to avoid a quarrel. Silence reigned at the table for a long moment. Cedric rubbed his forehead, Hermione hung halfway between the kitchen and her seat, and her mother chewed a nail.

Behind Hermione, the kettle whistle blew, breaking the tension. She hurried back to it and her mother rose to follow. While they prepared the tea cups, Hermione said, "He's been through all this before, mum - hoping, and nothing coming of it. It hurts."

"I know. Of course, I know. We know. But your father's right. Without hope - "

"He said he'd try the treatments. That's not a complete lack of hope. He's trying to be realistic."

"It sounded more cynical to me."

"Do you blame him? Really?" Hermione spun to glare at her mother. "If somebody tried to convince you that . . . acupuncture would stop tooth decay - would you believe it?"

"Hermione, don't be ridiculous. What on earth is the connection between acupuncture and tooth decay? There's a clear connection here; Brenda explained . . . "

"Aunt Brenda explained how GBS works, but Cedric's right. He doesn't have GBS. He suffered a curse that _looks_ like GBS in how it attacks his body. But to him, there's no more connection between antibodies attacking his nerves and a debilitating curse than you see between tooth decay and acupuncture. It doesn't make _sense_ to him. See?"

Frowning, her mother said, "We're trying to see," even as they heard the thump-scrape of Cedric's step.

He appeared in the open doorway of the kitchen. "I'm not trying to be ungrateful," he said, expression distressed.

"We know," Hermione's mother said. "We just want you to try, Cedric."

"And I will - try. I didn't say I wouldn't try this."

Hermione's mother nodded. That seemed the best compromise they could hope for.

Later that evening, Hermione, dressed in pyjamas, let herself into his guest room. True to her word, Hermione's mother had discussed things with Hermione's father, and they'd agreed it was silly for Hermione to pretend she wasn't sleeping with Cedric when she was. So since his return, she'd been sharing the guest bed with him. Her father hadn't said anything directly about it, and her mother had only asked (again) if she and Cedric were being careful.

Already in bed and removing his braces, Cedric looked up as she crawled in beside him but didn't speak. She didn't know what to say herself as she lay down. The evening had been tense and awkward, and it didn't surprise her that he didn't want to make love. "Just snuggle with me," he begged as they lay face-to-face, breathing each other. "I'm sorry," he said finally.

"For what?"

"Upsetting your dad and mum."

"Don't be silly. It's your life. And they . . . they don't really understand magic, Cedric. They try, but they don't. They want it to make scientific sense."

"I know. And I know they want to help. They don't want you stuck with a cripple - "

"_Don't say that - _"

"But it's true. And it's a natural thing to worry about. They're your _parents_. Things will always be harder for me - I know that, and so do they."

"And so do _I_. I _don't care_. I love you - "

"Shhh." He put a finger over her mouth. "Just listen a minute. It's not only their doubts about magic, Hermione. They . . . they need for this to work. They want me to get better, and not just because they're good people who don't like to see somebody in pain. They are that. But even more, they want you to have a whole man, not half of one."

"You are whole!" she snapped, angry and desperate. She couldn't bear hearing him talk about himself like that and thumped both fists on his chest. "You're more whole than most boys with two good legs! It was _you_ the Minister of Magic practically _begged_ to work for him!"

His smile was wry. "I thought you were skeptical of his motives?"

"I am, but that doesn't change the fact he wanted _you_. I can't stand it, hearing you put yourself down."

"I'm not, poppet. I'm simply stating a fact. I'm disabled, and there are a lot of things in my life that are made more difficult because of it."

"We can overcome all that!"

The wry smile had softened to something more genuine. "I never said I couldn't overcome the problems - or at least handle them - I said they're _problems_. Your parents are hoping this will cure me, or at least improve my condition, so the problems go away. I can't fault them for that. Sometimes I think I'm selfish for courting you. You could have virtually anybody, poppet - "

"I want you, you big idiot!" She could feel the tears hot in the corners of her eyes.

He put his finger over her mouth again. "Let me finish. Now, as I said, you could have anybody, but it'd be awfully arrogant of me to decide what you do want. I don't like to be patronized, and I won't patronize others if I can avoid it. You know what's involved in my condition, and if it's selfish of me to keep you for my own, then dammit, I'll be selfish. And if anybody wants to take you away from me, he'll face the fight of his life." He smiled. "That goes even for your dad."

She hugged him, but her mind drifted elsewhere. He had a point. Her parents were too good-hearted to wish she'd break up with him, whatever she sometimes accused her mother of. But they'd also been concerned from the beginning about the fact she'd fallen for a boy on crutches, even if they liked him. That brought her back around to him - to the hungry look in his eyes when he'd thought, even briefly, that he might be able to _recover_. She lived with his disability by proxy; he lived with it every minute of every day, and nobody wanted him to get better more than _he_ did. Reaching out, she cupped his cheek. "If this treatment could help you even a little, I want that. But I want it for you. Not for me, not for my parents, or yours. I want it for _you_."

Turning his head, he placed a kiss in her palm. "I'll try. I just don't expect it to work. And I don't want to waste time chasing a possible cure to a disease I don't have. I don't see that as giving up. I see that as being realistic."

"I know," she said. "And if you need to tell them to quit pestering you about it, I'm on your side, all right?"

He smiled and kissed her nose. "Thanks, poppet."

* * *

><p>Cedric's first official day on the job, an overcast and dreary Wednesday, was nerve wracking if also largely useless. There was orientation to go through, paperwork to fill out, and people who kept popping in to get a good look at him and - more to the point - his 'funny Muggle equipment.' Absolutely nothing of import was accomplished, or at least nothing that had to do with the job for which he'd been hired.<p>

He returned home that night, exhausted, to find the house empty except for Berry, and a note on the door that unfurled to announce everybody was over at the Burrow. Harry had arrived the night before, and Molly Weasley was hosting a welcome dinner. Cedric didn't feel up to a party but couldn't skip, so he Apparated over. Hermione must have been watching for him as she had the door open before he reached it. "You look knackered," she said, accepting his kiss.

"Am knackered. How long does this have to last?" He spoke in an undertone. "Not that I don't want to see Harry, but - "

"We don't have to stay long," she whispered back. "I've been here all day, so I can fill you in on the news later. Come and sit down at the table. Mrs. Weasley will be serving soon."

He let her lead him to the Enlarged kitchen table even as Harry spotted them and called, "Ced! How are you?" pushing his way through the crowded living room. "Hermione said you're working at the Ministry now?" He slid into a chair beside Cedric, who mustered a smile for him.

"I'm all right. Tired. Haven't really done anything useful yet. How are you?"

"I'm fine, but what's it like? How's the new Minister?" Lowering his voice, he added, "_The Daily Prophet _alluded to some rift between him and Dumbledore. Do you know any more?"

Cedric shook his head. "I read that too. But no, I don't. Dumbledore's the one who suggested I take the job. Be ears and eyes in the Minister's office, you know?"

Harry glanced past Cedric to where Hermione occupied a seat on his other side. "Hermione said she thinks he wants to use you - Scrimgeour does."

Cedric shrugged, accepting the glass of pumpkin juice someone set down in front of him. "Thanks." He started to answer Harry but a powerful arousal washed over him - spontaneous, unlooked-for, without incentive - and he gasped. He'd only felt it in the presence of -

He turned and his jaw dropped. "_Fleur?_"

Hands on hips and lips making a pink moue, Fleur shook her head in disapproval. "I was starting to think you were blind, Cederic Diggory." She'd always turned his first name into three syllables. Then she bent to grab his shoulders and kiss him on both cheeks. "It is so good to see you! How are you?"

"Er, brilliant. Uh" - he leaned back - "what are you _doing_ here?"

Bill Weasley walked up behind her, wrapping both arms around her shoulders from behind and kissing her cheek. "Cedric, meet my fiancée."

Both Cedric's eyebrows went up. "Really? Congratulations!" He held out his hand for Bill to shake. He didn't know the older man that well, but after his expulsion the year before, he and Bill had chatted a few times at The Three Broomsticks and he'd found they shared more than a few common opinions and interests.

"Thanks," Bill said, accepting the hand. "And congratulations yourself on the new job. We'll talk later, all right?"

"I look forward to it," Cedric said, then turned back to Harry and Hermione - the latter's face was thunderous. "What?" he asked her.

"Nothing," she snapped.

"She, Ginny and Mrs. Weasley don't like Fleur," Harry explained softly.

"Whyever not?" Cedric asked even as Hermione said, "I don't _dislike _her, Harry - "

"Yes, you do."

"I just think she's . . . well, _arrogant_. About being French." Then with a dark glance at Cedric, she added, "She looked happy to see _you_. And you to see her."

This annoyed Cedric. "Fleur's a friend. Nothing more." He took a sip of pumpkin juice.

"I heard she tried to get you to ask her to the Yule Ball."

Juice came out Cedric's nose. "That was a year and a half ago! And she didn't 'try to get' me to ask her - _she _asked _me_. I turned her down." Hermione gaped. "If I didn't say 'yes' then when I wasn't seeing anybody, what makes you think I'd be interested now, when I am? She's engaged to another man anyway."

Hermione had the good grace to blush, chin lowered. "Oh. Yes. Well, I suppose not."

"You'd like her, if you gave her a chance."

She gave him a dubious expression. "I rather doubt that."

He resisted rolling his eyes and turned back to Harry, who'd watched their exchange like a spectator at a Quidditch match. "Anyway, and on the subject of Scrimgeour - I'm sure he'll try to use me. Seems to be the _modus operandi _of politicians, even politicians who were former Aurors. But I've wanted to work at the Ministry for a long time. Did Hermione tell you what I'm doing for him?"

"Yeah, she did. So did Mr. Weasley." He nodded to where Ron's dad was laughing with Remus Lupin and Bill. "I think he wants to come and live in your office."

Cedric grinned. "He spent lunch there today; we were trying to figure out how to tune in Muggle radio stations. Never did have any luck."

Harry blinked behind the glasses and pushed them up his nose, glancing past Cedric to Hermione. "Well, you just, uh . . . turn the dial."

"There isn't any dial. Er - I don't think there is. Just buttons."

"It's digital," Hermione said, and Cedric turned to look. "You just turn it on, Cedric, find the buttons with up and down arrows, then keep punching them until something comes in clearly."

Cedric blinked. "Oh." Now he felt stupid.

"You should've just flooed me. I'd've explained it for you."

Hermione sounded impatient, which made Cedric feel worse, but Harry appeared to understand because he gave a lopsided grin. "I didn't know how to work a Wizarding wireless either till Ron showed me. I reckon what seems obvious depends on your previous experience. But" - Harry licked his lips - "what about Scrimgeour? Have you talked with him much? Dumbledore said he was able and more forceful than Fudge . . . but I got the impression Dumbledore was ducking the question about whether he'll be any good as Minister - just said he wouldn't underestimate Voldemort."

Toying with his juice glass, Cedric said, "Forceful is a good description. Impatient might be another. He'd have had me working the day after my interview, if he could've." Cedric frowned, thinking back to that interview. "I think he makes decisions quickly and doesn't spend a lot of time second-guessing himself. He knows how to use flattery too." He didn't look at Hermione as he said that, but felt her small hand bunch tight behind his robes. "He doesn't expect people to second-guess him, either, but he's willing to listen - at least he was to me. And he's not afraid of trying something new, which is more than I can say for Fudge." He frowned down at the empty dinner plate in front of him. "He's not inheriting an easy situation, you know? Fudge rather buggered things up."

Harry frowned, but nodded. "I reckon he's not."

Later that evening, after the meal, Bill Weasley pulled Cedric aside. "Got a minute?"

"Certainly."

"Would you be interested in sharing a flat in Diagon Alley - split rent?"

Cedric stared. "I . . . I hadn't really thought about moving out. I thought you were living here with your parents too since you got back from Cairo?"

"I am." Bill lowered his voice. "I love mum, I do, but she's old fashioned. I moved in here to save for the wedding, but she acts like Fleur and I need a bloody chaperone! And she won't even discuss letting us share a room. Fleur's got a place in London, but it's small and I was thinking, if, well, you'd be interested in the three of us splitting rent on a two bedroom? But you can't tell mum that Fleur's in on it. We'd even divide cost three ways but you'd get the second room to yourself. All we'd ask is that we get the bedroom with a private bathroom, yeah?"

Cedric blinked. "Er, uh, maybe?" He was thrown. "I'm not opposed to the idea, I just . . . I'll talk to my parents." There was the matter of Hermione's obvious jealousy of Fleur. It might be unfounded but he'd have to tread carefully. "Are there - well, what about a flat with electricity?"

"Huh?" Bill appeared as startled by that suggestion as Cedric had been by the notion of sharing a flat in the first place.

"I know it's not exactly the norm, but for my job, it'd be handy if I had a flat with electricity and a telephone." It would also provide a good reason for him to move out without explaining overmuch.

"I wouldn't even know how to go about looking for a Muggle place, Ced.."

"Let me look into that, all right?"

Bill considered a moment, then nodded. "All right. As long as we could work out the logistics."

"Fair enough."

Cedric and Hermione left not long after, although his parents were staying on for a bit. As they exited through the gate of the Weasley residence, she asked, "_Did_ he flatter you? Scrimgeour? You said it earlier, when talking to Harry."

"Wanting confirmation that you were right about him?"

Her jaw hardened. "Don't be bitter, Cedric. I'm not trying to prove I was right. I just . . . I hoped maybe I was wrong. You took the job, so I hoped I was wrong."

Startled, he glanced down at her where her bushy head was bent, then stopped and shifted weight on his crutches. She stopped too. Outside the warded area now, he slipped an arm around her waist. "We'll talk when we get home," then he Disapparated them with practiced ease. They came out on his front step. Lamps glowed softly inside and he tested the locking charm. It seemed untouched, so he let them in.

In addition to the lamps, a fire burned in the gallery hearth. Berry had the place waiting and she popped her head in, to be sure they were her family, then disappeared again without comment. Cedric made his way over to the gallery sofa. "I don't know if it was flattery," he said, continuing the conversation. "Sometimes I think it was, sometimes I think it wasn't. Is it flattery if somebody tells you something they actually believe is true, but they tell you for their own purposes?" Plopping down on the cushions, he looked up at her.

"I'd say it's at least manipulation," she told him, hesitating before walking over to join him, curling up at his side and laying her head on his shoulder. "It bothers me that he'd say things to you just to get you to do what he wants. You're special all on your own."

Uncertain how to reply to that, he weighed words for a moment, then asked, "Would you assume he was flattering me if I wasn't disabled?"

Her head jerked up and she gaped at him in shock, but he held her eyes and didn't back down. She didn't seem to know how to reply either, and after a moment, he took pity on her and looked away. "The one thing he _didn't _do was make anything of my handicap, either act apologetic for it or pretend it wasn't there. I'm not sure that he didn't flatter me, or that he won't try to use me - but if so, it's got nothing to do with me being crippled. That's the one thing I left the interview all but certain of. Perhaps that's why I accepted the job. He didn't pity me."

He turned his head again, studying her face in the yellow lamplight. She looked struck. "You do."

That woke her up. "I do not!"

"Yes, you do. A little. When you say things like I'm special 'all on my own,' what's that supposed to mean? All on my own in relation to _what_?" In answer, he held up one of his crutches. "In relation to this? In spite of this?"

"No!"

He found her protests annoying, but also didn't feel like arguing. He was too tired, and the day had been too long. "I need to go to bed. I've got to get up early again." He pushed himself back to his feet.

"You want me to help?" she asked.

And something inside him just snapped under the freight of _small_ things. Turning to look down at her, he snarled, "Believe it or not, I can get ready for bed all by myself. I'm not _four_; I don't need a _mummy_ to brush my teeth, or defend my abilities, or fix my little _problem _with Muggle medicine, or make endless fucking lists, or tell me how to tune a goddamn radio like I'm some idiotic retard."

She flinched but couldn't meet his eyes. "What's wrong with you tonight?" But the question wasn't bitter or angry. It sounded small and lost, and deflated his rage. His shoulders sagged.

"I don't know," he said, honestly. "I don't know. I'm just . . . I'm tired. I'm feeling . . . I don't know what I'm feeling."

Despite the fact he'd snapped at her for things that weren't her fault, he'd also snapped at her for things she did that really _bothered_ him - and he didn't feel up to sorting it out or apologizing. Instead, he left the gallery and headed for the bathroom, getting ready for bed, but when he reached his room, she wasn't in it. Only Esiban occupied his bed, curled into a grizzled ball, sleeping.

He clunked back out to the gallery, but she wasn't there either. "Bloody hell," he muttered, hoping she hadn't done something stupid like try to go off on her own in the middle of the night. If anything happened to her . . .

"Berry!" he called, and a moment later the house-elf appeared with a crack. "Where's Hermione?" he asked.

Berry gave him a reproachful look out of those big, pink eyes. "Miss Pretty Hermione went upstairs. Berry gets her soft sheets for the guestroom, I's does."

Cedric sighed, relieved. "Would you please go up and tell her to come back down to bed?"

Berry hesitated, then blurted, "Master Cedric not very nice. Maybe she doesn't want to come back down."

Lips thin, he just looked at the elf. "Berry, it's important. Sometimes people . . . quarrel. It doesn't mean anything permanent." He and Hermione had got into the habit of stalking off from one another to cool down, then acting as if nothing had happened. It needed to stop. "Please go and get her."

The elf disappeared and Cedric went back to his room. After a few minutes, he heard the cautious creak of feet on the stairs, then the bedroom door opened and Hermione looked inside. She carried a change of clothes that she must have got out of her suitcase. Cedric had been sitting on the bed, elbows braced on knees, head in his hands. He looked up. Her face was white.

"I'm not going to apologize," he said softly. "Not for all of it. Some of it - yeah. I was just . . . angry. But some of it . . . you do these little things. They grate."

Her eyes were large and dark, like bruises, and she stood indeterminate in the doorway. "I don't know what to say to that. I didn't . . . I didn't mean anything - "

"I know. And I've never told you. I just . . . ignored it, until I blew my top. Not very helpful. Please come in and close the door."

She did, but came no closer. "Don't look like such a scared rabbit," he said, annoyed by that too. "I'm not going to bite you. Usually you fight back."

"I was just . . . you don't . . . you sounded _mean_, Cedric. You're not _mean_. I didn't know . . . I didn't know how to respond."

And that shamed him; he looked away from her. "Sometimes I am mean. Don't idolize me. I get tired, I get frustrated, and it all adds up and I just feel . . . pissed off. I usually shove it down because - like you said - Cedric Diggory isn't ever _mean_. Well, he is, dammit! Sometimes I just want to be honest, and . . . and . . . _not nice_. I don't feel like being nice. Everybody else gets to be a bastard sometimes, but not me."

A spurt of giggles interrupted him and he raised his eyes to glare. She was laughing. "I'm sorry," she said. "I'm not laughing at you. It's just funny because, well, you _are _nice. You're a good person. Here you are, explaining so rationally why you want to be mean." She giggled again. "Everybody else just _is_. They don't explain it."

And he didn't know if he wanted to explode in a fit of temper - or laugh. She took a few steps closer, and her face had gone serious again. "It's all right to be a right royal bastard sometimes, you know. As long as you don't make a habit of it. After all, I put up with Harry and Ron."

"Don't patronize me," he said. "That's what makes me angrier than anything else. I know you do it because you mean well, but it's really _frustrating_, Hermione.

"I don't patronize you!" she snapped, and he could see two spots of color on her cheeks. Oddly, it made him feel better to see her get angry.

"You do. In little ways. Like tonight, telling me I should have flooed you about the radio."

"Well you should have! It would've been the simple solution - "

"- but I was too much of an idiot to have seen that?" he snapped, interrupting her.

Her mouth opened. "That's not - " But she stopped. And he watched something wake in her face, as if she'd finally heard not only what she'd said, but also - for the first time - what she'd _implied_. "I didn't . . . I really didn't . . . " She trailed off. "You're not an idiot. I've never thought you were an idiot." She took a sudden breath, like a startled gasp. "I'm sorry."

She looked ready to cry, and inside him, something eased, coming untangled. "Come here," he said, gesturing her closer. She came - all the way to the bed and let him get both arms around her waist. "I love you. That's why it hurts when I hear that in your voice. I may tease you about being bossy - but sometimes it gets to me. I don't need to be bossed around."

She cupped his face in her hands, looking down at him earnestly. "I was only irked because I could have helped - made it easier. I like to help. It makes me . . . it makes me feel good, when I can give people the answers."

He smiled up at her. "I know, poppet. That's a lot of what I admire about you - you like to help. And you really are brilliant. It's just . . . it's _how_ you offer sometimes, you know? And when you try to defend me and I really don't need to be defended . . . I appreciate that you want to, but I don't _need_ it. And when you try, it makes me feel like you think I can't take care of myself. That's patronizing. I react badly."

She nodded, hands still on his face. "I'm sorry."

"I'm sorry, too, for being mean earlier."

Her lips curled. "Move over so I can get into bed. Like you said, we've got to get up early."

So he did, and after the light was out, the raccoon rearranged between their feet, he tucked his arm around her waist and spoke into the back of her hair. "We actually finished that quarrel. Didn't walk away this time."

She was quiet a moment, then said, "We did, didn't we?" And then she snuggled back against him. They didn't make love - he just wasn't up to it - but they slept with their bodies touching.

* * *

><p>Cedric's second and third days at the Ministry were exercises in frustration. If he'd finally managed to tune the radio, he found himself blocked out from using of the internet. The ethernet cable was working, but a box kept popping up, demanding a user name and password. A few desperate owls later, he'd determined that additional spying would prove necessary before he could utilize his jury-rigged access. Ted Tonks junior volunteered to borrow Moody's Invisibility Cloak in order to get Cedric the information he needed, but it was yet another obstacle.<p>

Cedric still had enough data to make reports, even if all he had to tell so far was Muggle news. It wasn't what the Minister had been hoping for, he knew, but he'd only been on the job three days. Voldemort was bound to make a move eventually and as an Auror, Scrimgeour surely understood that surveillance required patience.

But Cedric had forgotten that - former Auror or not - Scrimgeour was now a minister under pressure to make headway against Voldemort. Monday afternoon, Cedric was called into the Minister's office for a 'friendly consult.'

"The most you can tell me about is some group of unruly Irish bombing Muggles in Manchester last month and a Muggle president down in the Balkans who was forced to resign last Friday?"

"Karadzic's a war criminal, sir; he's wanted for genocide and torture in Bosnia-Hercegovina. He had thousands of people murdered just last year in Srebrenica. _Thousands_, Minister." Viktor had been owling Cedric about the whole situation on his doorstep, and had been using his status as an international Quidditch star to raise public awareness. "The war in the Balkans affects us too. Viktor Krum tells me witches and wizards have lost homes, businesses, and some have been killed in bombings alongside Muggles." Nervous, Cedric licked his lips. "I know it's a long way from us, but look at these." He handed over a stack of printouts with Muggle photographs, plus a couple wizarding photos Viktor had sent. One showed a wizarding family standing in front of what was left of their home in Sarajevo. Scrimgeour was frowning, clearly disturbed.

"I have heard about this 'ethnic cleansing,'" he said, "one could hardly not." But something in the way he said it made Cedric think this was the first time he'd really been faced by the reality. "I'm not sure what it's got to do with You Know Who, however."

"Nothing, but I thought you should be kept informed, sir" - all part of Cedric's ulterior goal to prove the impact of Muggle politics on wizards. "As for Manchester, the blast injured or killed over 200 people. It was attributed to the IRA, but it could have had Death-Eater involvement." He was reaching, but Scrimgeour didn't sound understanding. "There are peace talks going on in Northern Ireland that this attack could have sabotaged. Perhaps they were manipulated into it, to keep the Muggles stirred up?"

"Possibly - and closer to home than the Balkans. What's the IRA?"

Cedric had been prepared for that question as he hadn't known himself beyond hearing the name once or twice. "The Irish Republican Army, although it's a bit more complicated - there's more than one group of them, you see." He leaned forward in his chair, wand out to rifle through the papers in the Minister's report to find a printout he'd prepared with a summary of who they were, what they wanted, and the violence they'd engaged in to get it. "A terrorist group," he added, "not unlike the Death Eaters, albeit with different goals. Muggles deal with a number of terrorist organizations, both political and religious. It might . . . " he hesitated, then blurted, "it might be useful to study the methods of those groups and how Muggles handle them."

"Already covered, Diggory," the Minister said. "There's a unit in Auror training on terrorism."

"Oh." Perhaps they weren't as uninformed as Cedric had feared. Cedric hesitated again, then said, "I have a friend from Manchester; he was my roommate at Hogwarts. He might be able to look into the explosion, in case there was more to it than - "

"Scott Summers, I know. He's been admitted to Auror academy - got his acceptance last week. I'll see to it that he's sent up there with a full member of the corps, just in case." The Minister tossed the papers back on his desk. "Well, let's hope for better next week. We need clues about where the Death Eaters are holed up or might strike next, try to head them off at the pass, even arrest a few. Get me _clues_, Diggory, not the Muggle society page."

Cedric knew better than to protest. He was running with the big dogs; he had to produce or be eaten. "Yes, sir."

On his way out of Scrimgeour's office, he came face to face with none other than Dolores Umbridge headed in, clipboard in hand. For a suspended moment, they just looked at each other. Red hate and physical illness churned in Cedric's belly, making his limbs weak. Fear was there too, and that shamed him, but he _remembered_ how she'd looked at him. Most of all, however, he felt simple astonishment. "What are you doing here?" he blurted.

One eyebrow lifted as she looked up at him. "I work here, Mr. Diggory - or did you forget that? I heard that you do, too - in a rather unorthodox job."

"You _work_ here?" he asked, voice rising. "How can you possibly still _work_ here? Why weren't you sacked along with your _master_ after everything you did?"

"Diggory!" It was the voice of Scrimgeour. Cedric spun. "Is there a problem?"

Cedric should have kept his mouth shut. He should have waited to talk to the Minister privately. Instead, he exploded - "Why is she still working here? After what she did? She lied about me, sir. She harassed me all year. She - "

"That's enough, Diggory." Scrimgeour didn't raise his voice but it cut straight across Cedric's rant. "I don't fire staff due to personal vendettas."

"It's not just me! It's - "

"I said that's enough. Go back to your office and pry your foot out of your mouth. Then find me reports that might give me clues about what You Know Who is up to."

Jaw still open, Cedric wanted to protest. He wanted to _badly_. But he turned and left as ordered, hobbling on his crutches, humiliated and furious. Behind him, he could hear the Minister saying, "My apologies, Dolores; he's young. Please come in."

Back in his office, Cedric stopped only long enough to pick up his briefcase and laptop, then left again. It wasn't quite five o'clock but close enough, and he'd get nothing else done before the workday ended. He wanted to break something, not read the papers or watch the telly. On the way out, he ran into Arthur Weasley and was unable to resist snapping, "Why didn't anybody tell me that _bitch_ is still working here?"

Mr. Weasley blinked. "I beg your pardon?"

Pausing, Cedric took a deep breath and let it out, struggling for calm. "Umbridge," he said. "She's still here. I just ran into her in the Minister's office. What is she _doing_ here? When I asked the Minister - and all right, I admit I was . . . upset - he said he didn't fire staff for personal vendettas. But she was Fudge's right-hand woman! How can Scrimgeour stand to have her around - and how can she stand to work for him?"

Glancing nervously about, Mr. Weasley said, "Let's drop by Diagon Alley on the way home, get ourselves a cup of tea. I'll send Molly a message. Have you seen my sons' new shop? Weasley Wizard Wheezes?"

Confused and blinking, Cedric just shook his head. He stood here simmering at a boil only to have Arthur Weasley suggest they visit the twins' joke shop? But he followed the older man out of the Ministry by the visitor entrance, which he still had to use. They then Apparated over to Diagon Alley, where Mr. Weasley ordered them tea in a shop and they sat out on the pavement. The street was nearly deserted, shoppers looking nervous and hurried, store windows bearing posters with the images of wanted Death Eaters. A few stores were even boarded up.

They'd barely got seated before one of the twins joined them; Cedric still had a difficult time telling them apart, but thought this might be George - a fact his father confirmed when he stood to give the boy a hug. "George! You got my message; have a seat, have a seat. Cedric and I just ordered a pot; I'll have the waiter bring an extra cup."

George seated himself in a third chair, saying, "Actually, we're a bit swamped at the moment. Fred's holding down the fort so I could drop by." He plopped a bag on the table by his father. "I think that ought to do the trick."

Mr. Weasley grinned at his son, "Thanks," and started to pull a few sickles from his pocket but George shook his head.

"Not for this. Talk to you later." Rising, he shot a glance at Cedric, adding, "Good luck with the old lion, Diggory." Then he trotted back across the street.

"We can talk without worry now," Mr. Weasley said.

"Aren't there spells for that?"

"Indeed, but Fred and George have developed a special line of serious products for dark arts defense. Shielding spells, decoys, and what's in the bag - a Randomizer. The trouble with Muffling spells is that they may obscure what you're saying, but it's fairly clear you're saying something you don't want to have overheard. The Randomizer comes with a pre-programmed conversation on generic topics that adapts to the voices of the speakers. Anybody listening in will hear us talking about" - he glanced into the bag - "Quidditch. Nothing suspect."

Sobering a little, Mr. Weasley leaned over. "I'm quite certain Umbridge has sent someone to see where we went, and while we could have gone back to the Burrow, I want them to think I took you out for tea to calm you down - not give you advice."

Cedric had to struggle not to look completely astonished. Was this the bumbling man overfond of Muggle trivia stuck in a dead-end job? Perhaps he'd seriously underestimated Mr. Weasley.

The waiter arrived with their tea and Mr. Weasley poured. "Now," he said, stirring sugar and a little milk into his own cup, "take care with Umbridge, Cedric. She has too many friends in too many places at the Ministry. I didn't run into you by accident. Word is already out that you confronted her in Scrimgeour's office and he had to intervene."

Cedric felt his cheeks and ears flush. "Well, that gossip titbit must have taken all of . . . fifteen minutes to spread."

"That's about all it does take with her. She's roundly hated, but also deeply feared. People may sympathize with you, but nobody will stand up to her if she attacks you directly. Be glad that Scrimgeour dismissed your outburst as youth, and hope she lets it slide."

Cedric had fixed his own tea while listening to Mr. Weasley, his stomach churning. "I don't understand how she's still working there! Why wasn't she let go when Fudge was sacked?"

"On what grounds? That she was a member of his staff? That's not enough to sack somebody. And if we know she did a fair number of illegal things at Hogwarts, there's no solid proof. It's a matter of word against word, and cases of that sort are difficult to win, especially if the characters of the witnesses have been called into question. In this case, I'm afraid they have been."

No solid proof. Cedric suddenly understood the very real loss - far beyond just the artistic - that burning his mother's painting had meant. Ramifications. There were always ramifications to one's choices, and he hadn't really considered them when he'd gone to London after Harry, just resented being penned in. Even after, he'd been thinking only about the miscarriage. He'd made it all about him. Now - finally - he realized the full scope of what they'd given up to be certain he was safe . . . and he was ashamed.

Mr. Weasley continued, "We'd hoped she might resign when Fudge left, but she didn't. Scrimgeour had no grounds to fire her, but if you'll notice, she's no longer _senior_ undersecretary. If Rufus couldn't get rid of her, he could effectively demote her by bringing in previous staff from his old department."

Mr. Weasley sipped his tea and let Cedric think about that. "How do we get rid of her?" Cedric asked finally. "I want" - he shivered all over from rage - "I want to see her in Azkaban."

"You and a lot of others at the Ministry. But if you thought matters at school were sometimes unfair, you're about to see just how unfair the real world is." He paused a moment, then went on. "I understand why Dumbledore wanted you in Scrimgeour's office, but I wish it hadn't been necessary. You've been thrown straight into the lion's den, Cedric."

"My mum said something along those lines."

"She's dead right. Play your cards close to your chest, avoid attracting too much attention, and learn who you can cross and who you can't. You're young, but you're famous. Scrimgeour is inclined to give you a little leash to run if it keeps you happy, but you're still on a leash and he'll rein you in at some point to do his bidding. Do it unless it's completely against your ethics. But don't confuse ethics with pride." Mr. Weasley's lips twisted. "The most difficult job for some of us is recognizing our place at the Ministry and how we can use it. I'm dismissed, overlooked, but there's value in that - as long as I don't let my pride get in the way. You see?"

Cedric did see. And his private opinion of Arthur Weasley rose several more notches. This was a man strong enough to be a 'nobody' in the eyes of many in order to serve a greater good. "Thank you," he told the other man. He meant it for more than just the advice about Umbridge. 

* * *

><strong>Notes: <strong>I've made a slight adjustment to the timeline during the 1996 summer. Here, Harry arrives at the Burrow three and a half weeks into the summer, not two. None of these changes interfere with anything in the book but work better for my purposes.


	5. Desire

Because Hermione wasn't staying at the Burrow, she didn't hear about the Prophecy or Harry's scheduled private lessons with Dumbledore until later in the week. It was the same day that their OWL results arrived. Ever since Cedric had learned his scores, Hermione had been worrying about hers. By the time she'd taken the exams, she'd been so stressed, she was certain she'd not done as well as she might have. And that wasn't just her usual anxiety over marks, whatever Ron and Harry said. She knew the difference.

As usual, she went to the Burrow after Cedric left for work on Monday morning, and Molly Weasley insisted she sit down at the table with the boys and have some breakfast even though she'd already eaten. To keep the woman happy, she accepted a banana and piece of toast when three Ministry owls were spotted in the distance bearing down on the Burrow. Hermione let out a little squeak and jumped to her feet, toast and banana forgotten. "Oh, no! It's - oh, no!"

"Hermione!" Harry said, half laughing even as Mrs. Weasley squeezed past her to open the window so the owls could sail through to land on the old oak table - three handsome, very official-looking owls with equally official-looking letters tied to their legs.

Both the boys rose to untie theirs. "Go on," Mrs. Weasley said softly to Hermione, giving her a gentle push. Hermione crossed to the remaining owl and tried to undo the letter, but her hands were shaking so badly it shivered the whole bird, who cocked its head and glared at her out of yellow eyes. Finally the letter was free and she unfolded it, breath held. She wished Cedric were here even as she was glad he wasn't. What if she didn't pass something?

Behind her, she was aware of the boys chattering, but she tuned them out, looking down to read:

**ORDINARY WIZARDING LEVEL RESULTS  
><strong>

_Passing Grades_:

OUTSTANDING (O) POOR (P) EXCEEDS EXPECTATIONS (E) ACCEPTABLE (A)

_Failing Grades:_

POOR (P) Dreadful (D) TROLL (T)

**Hermione Jean Granger has achieved:**

Ancient Runes: E  
>Arithmancy: O<br>Astronomy: O  
>Care of Magical Creatures: O<br>Charms: O  
>Defence Against the Dark Arts: E<br>Herbology: O  
>History of Magic: E<br>Muggle Studies: O  
>Potions: O<br>Transfigurations: O  
><strong><br>**

She blinked down at the results. Three Es. She'd got three Es. Well, she'd known she hadn't done that well in Defence Against the Dark Arts. Like Cedric, the subject gave her trouble. And History of Magic . . . she hadn't finished one essay and then had completely skipped the last when Harry had collapsed, so the fact she'd managed even an E should please her. But an E in Ancient Runes? Languages weren't really her forte, but she'd tried so _hard_. Of course, she'd also taken the test on the day she'd begun to suspect she might be pregnant, so perhaps she could be excused for having a divided attention. She knew she'd translated at least three short passages dead wrong, and there was no telling how many other little mistakes she'd made . . .

Abruptly, someone - Ron - snatched the parchment right out of her hand. "Oi! Harry asked how you did," he said, skimming her results. "Yup, 8 Os and 3 Es . . . hey, at least you didn't _fail_ anything. And not even an A in the lot! You're actually _disappointed_, aren't you?"

Hermione shook her head, trying to deny it, but Harry and Ron just laughed at her; it wasn't entirely unkind. "You still got more OWLs than Ced did," Harry pointed out. "He told me he only passed 8 but you passed _all_ yours, and you took more than he did. You can still take the Mickey out of him."

Smiling faintly at this attempt to cheer her up, Hermione shook her head again. "I know," she said, folding the parchment and putting it away even as Ron shouted, "Well, we're NEWT students now! Mum, are there any more sausages?"

There were, and Hermione sat with the boys as they finished eating. Ron appeared delighted, but he'd probably done better than he'd expected to. Hermione loved him, and he was brighter than he often let on or even believed of himself, but he just didn't try hard. Harry, however, was looking a bit down in the mouth. "What is it?" she asked him, laying a hand over his when Mrs. Weasley headed outside to do something in the back garden.

"An E in Potions means Snape won't let me in his NEWT-level class."

"Why would you want to be in his class?" Ron asked.

Hermione sighed in frustration even as Harry said, "We need NEWTs in Potions if we want to become Aurors."

"Honestly, Ronald," Hermione added. "How could you forget? You said it was something you were interested in too."

"Oh, yeah. Well - " Blushing, he just shrugged. "But I won't miss Snape, that's for certain."

"Harry, maybe Snape will make an exception for you. He knows how much pressure you were under last year, and he's in the Order and such and - "

"His being in the Order didn't make him any nicer to me last year," Harry interrupted, expression grim. "I'm not really expecting any favors from him. But, well, doesn't it seem like the right sort of career for somebody who has to kill Voldemort?"

"You do have a natural gift for Defence Against the Dark Arts, it's true," Hermione agreed. "But you don't necessarily have to kill Vol-Voldemort yourself, Harry. There are lots . . . " She trailed off as both Harry and Ron stopped eating to stare first at her, then glance at each other.

"Better tell her, mate," Ron said.

"Tell me what?"

"Well, that prophecy? The one in the glass ball that broke?" Harry asked.

"Nobody knows what it said," Hermione answered. "Whatever _The Prophet _was claiming."

"Actually, _The Prophet _got it right."

Hermione felt her jaw drop a little and she sat back. "Harry - " she said weakly.

He glanced at the back door but Mrs. Weasley hadn't returned yet, so he went on, "The glass ball that smashed wasn't the only record of the prophecy. I heard the whole thing in Dumbledore's office; he was the one the prophecy was made to, so he could tell me. From what it said" - Harry took a deep breath - "it looks like I'm the one who's got to finish off Voldemort . . . At least, it said neither of us could live while the other survives." And he related the rest of it to Hermione, who clutched his hand, half to steady herself, half to reassure him. Ron was listening with a solemn face, but as he'd already heard it, he didn't look surprised.

"Oh, Harry," she said. "Cedric and I . . . we were worried about this. We talked about it a little, when I was in hospital. After what Lucius Malfoy said about the prophecy, how it was about you and Voldemort, well, we feared it might be something like this." She leaned over the table a little more. "Are you scared?"

"Not as much as I was when I first heard it," Harry admitted. "Now, it seems as though I always knew I'd have to face him in the end. Ced knew about it." Harry shot Ron an apologetic glance. "I told him after he and Hermione got back from St. Mungo's. At first, I wasn't up to telling anybody, but then . . . well, it just popped out in a conversation with him."

"So he rated higher than me or Hermione?" Ron's jaw was clenched. "Oh, yeah, he's your _blood brother _now, isn't he?"

"Stop being an idiot," Harry replied, which Hermione could see only hurt Ron further. "I told you, it just popped out. We were talking about Sirius dying, he told me something sort of, er, private, and it popped out. I wasn't _hiding_ it from you or Hermione. I told you the night I arrived here, didn't I?"

Ron was shoving sausages into his mouth, perhaps to keep from saying something unforgivable, and Hermione had some idea what Cedric might have told Harry that had made Harry share the Prophecy with him, but she wasn't ready yet for Ron to know she'd been pregnant. Instead, she reached across to poke Ron with her spoon. "Harry didn't tell me until just _now_ and I'm not upset about it. It's not some sort of contest, Ron. Harry has to fight Voldemort! He needs us." She turned back to Harry. "When I heard Dumbledore had collected you in person, I suspected he might be telling or showing you something about the Prophecy."

"Sort of," Harry replied. "He told me that he's going to be giving me private lessons next year."

"That's wonderful!" Hermione said.

Ron sighed, as if reluctant to give over, then added, "I told him it must mean Dumbledore doesn't think he's a goner, that he's got a chance."

"That's true," Hermione said. "I wonder what he'll teach you? Really advanced defensive magic, probably . . . powerful counter-curses . . . anti-jinxes - "

She cut off abruptly as the door opened and Mrs. Weasley came back inside carrying several carrots, spring onions, celery, potatoes, and some runner beans from the garden patch. Hermione changed the subject and they talked instead about the classes they wanted to take for the coming year, then went out to play two-aside Quidditch with Ginny, although Hermione really didn't like the sport. Yet it seemed to keep Harry's mind off that awful Prophecy, so she was willing.

She and Ginny were helping Mrs. Weasley with dinner when Mrs. Weasley received a message that Mr. Weasley would be late as he was taking Cedric to Diagon Alley. "Wonder what that's about?" Ginny whispered to Hermione.

And indeed, almost two hours passed before the two men returned to the Burrow. Mr. Weasley looked tired, but Cedric looked angry. "What happened?" Hermione asked, meeting Cedric at the back door.

"She's still working there."

"Who?"

"_Umbridge." _He spit out the name like something sour.

Harry had overheard and approached. "Umbridge is still working at the Ministry?"

"Yes. I ran into her on the way out of Scrimgeour's office. The bitch is still there."

"Cedric," Mrs. Weasley scolded, turning.

"Sorry, Mrs. Weasley." But Hermione didn't think he looked apologetic.

"What are you going to do about her?" Harry asked.

Lips pursed, Cedric shrugged. "Apparently, nothing. I've been warned that however much people hate and fear her, she's too well-ensconced with those in power to be touched."

"You should put a Niffler in her office, mate," Harry said, lips twitching. "Remind her of the good old days at Hogwarts."

"Harry," Hermione scolded, but Cedric was struggling not to laugh and looking . . . impish. "Don't you dare," Hermione warned him. "Don't you even think about it; she'll know it was you."

"She'd have to prove it, though."

"No, Cedric, she wouldn't." Hermione glared at him, trying to _will_ him to see sense. "She'd just make your life hell at work. You're not at school anymore."

"Yeah," Cedric replied. "Believe it or not, I sort of noticed that."

* * *

><p>By Friday of that same week, Cedric finally had a chance to earn his pay. The home of a middle-aged couple in Shalford, Surrey, burned to the ground, killing the couple in the blaze. Neighbors claimed they had been letting off fireworks and had accidentally blown up their own house. That was possibly true - Cedric knew better than to underestimate human stupidity - but neighbors also described them as, "strange and stand-offish, kept to themselves." Nobody seemed to know much about either of them, and the fireworks were described as red and green explosions. All together, it sent up a red flag. Tearing the story out of the paper, Cedric duplicated it and sent it off immediately to the Minister's office by enchanted plane.<p>

Within three hours, news was all over the Ministry that the unfortunate murder victims were none other than Wilhelm Wigworthy, author of _Home Life and Social Habits of British Muggles _- a textbook Cedric had read in Muggle Studies - and his Muggle wife. The fact Wigworthy had lived as a Muggle meant Muggles had found him first, but spotting the news story within 24 hours of the incident, Cedric had given the Aurors a chance to get in and clean up the mess before the Muggle police got too far with too many dangerous questions. The less memory modification needed, the better. Cedric even received a personal (if brief) visit from the Minister. "Sharp eyes, Diggory," Scrimgeour said. "If there was ever a Dark Mark cast over the house, it must have been disturbed and dispersed by the Muggle police."

"But you're certain he did it?"

"A Muggle-sympathizer murdered at night, Dark Magic residue all over the house - I dare say it was him or some of his followers. We knew He Who Must Not Be Named was targeting those like Madam Bones who'd blocked his influence at the Ministry, or those like Harry Potter who he held a personal grudge against. But this murder suggests he's actively seeking out anybody who promotes Muggle interests and ideas among wizards."

Cedric was left wondering if he might fall into that category himself. He decided not to say anything to anybody else. He didn't want them worrying. And he liked his job.

Since being taken on at the Ministry, he, Bill and Fleur had begun meeting in Diagon Alley for lunch to look through papers - magical and Muggle both - for rentals. They'd determined it was going to be more difficult than they'd first thought to rent Muggle as neither Bill nor Fleur technically existed in the Muggle world, and Cedric only partially. A local council tax was levied on properties, which meant registering their existence, but there appeared to be an option that might get them around it if they took a flat in an HMO, a house in multiple occupation. They'd have to be careful of their Muggle neighbors, but it wasn't as small as a bedsitter and they could pay their portion of the tax to the landlord or managing agent, not the council. "I'm not sure what I'll do with Esiban, however," Cedric said. Over and over in the rentals, "no pets" was part of the policy, and the fact he had to have a place with disabled access only made things more complicated yet. He was starting to despair of finding one place that would meet all their needs.

Sometimes the twins joined them at a café, or Scott Summers, who'd moved to London to attend the Auror academy. Even more occasionally, Tonks came along with Scott, and Cedric did his best not to laugh at the courting dance Scott performed when Tonks was present. "I think you're in love," he told his friend on the Tuesday following Wigworthy's death. He'd eaten quickly in order to do a bit of shopping for Harry's birthday the next day. Scott had offered to help.

"Fuck off," Scott said now, almost cheerfully.

"I heard she was the Auror assigned to take you to Manchester to look into that bombing."

"Which tip turned out to be total rubbish - thank you for wasting my time. The Death Eaters had nothing to do with it."

"I didn't honestly think they had, but I needed to give the Minister something; he was getting a bit pushy. At least you got an afternoon with Tonks out of it."

Scott eyed him as they reached the Apparition point and he handed over the package he'd been carrying for Cedric. "Are you sure this Muggle press shtick is the best use of your talent?"

The question took Cedric aback. "What do you mean?"

"Come on, mate, think, would you!" Scott appeared torn between anger and worry. "Your new-fangled position as 'Advisor to the Minister on Muggle Affairs,' and all that Muggle shite in your office? It makes you a target. Consider who he just killed. If any of this actually served a purpose, I could understand, but I don't even know why you wanted it!"

Blindsided by Scott's upset, Cedric stared. Today he was on crutches, so they were eye-to-eye. "I didn't think you were biased against Muggles."

"Bloody hell - this isn't about Muggles! It's about you wasting your time on a job with no damn point that's likely to get you killed."

Cedric stared down at the cobblestones beneath his feet, confused and hurt. People passed to and fro, although not nearly as many as there might once have been. Was this how others saw his job? As a waste of time? "How much impact do you think Muggle politics have on your life?"

Scott answered promptly and without pause. "None."

Cedric looked up. "I'd have said the same thing a month or two ago. Now, let me ask a different question. What would it mean if Voldemort won? Worst-case scenario."

Scott winced at the name, but studied Cedric a moment, as if trying to figure out where all this was going. "He'd probably overhaul our government, might even try to impose legal segregation by blood purity. We've been debating it in the academy, actually - what his ultimate goals are."

"How far would it stretch? Outside the U.K.?"

"Probably not far unless by influence; Grindelwald still has supporters on the Continent. But You Know Who simply doesn't have the manpower to launch a war anywhere else. Give him ten years, though."

"Do you think he could kill every Muggle?"

Scott blinked. "What? Nobody could do that."

"Yes, they could. What would you think if I told you the Muggles have weapons that could wipe out life on the entire planet - Muggle, Wizard, plant and animal . . . turn it all into a wasteland."

Scott was gaping. "I'd say you were out of your mind."

"I'm not. We've been separate from them too long, living in our own isolated world. They've come a long way past witch burnings. Come to my office after classes today. I'll show you."

Cedric cut short his afternoon's work to prepare for Scott's arrival with print-outs and material bookmarked on his computer. He wasn't sure why convincing Scott mattered so much, but it did. Practice, perhaps. He'd to have to justify his continued position after Voldemort was defeated, and Scott was a good place to start - neither hostile to Muggles nor especially interested, either.

As it turned out, he faced both Scott and Tonks. "I wanted to come and see what grandpa set up for you," she said, poking around his office, flipping on the telly and surfing channels with the remote like an old pro.

"You know Muggle things," Cedric observed.

"Well, of course," she replied. "It's not as if we ever spent holidays with _mum's_ family. So I know a fair bit about Muggles." She turned off the telly and plopped down in a spare chair, putting her feet up on his desk and looking relaxed. "But I never heard they could destroy the whole planet." She thumbed at Scott. "He said you said they could."

"They can," Cedric replied, turning his laptop on the desk so they could see the screen, then handing Scott the printouts he'd made earlier. "And in more ways than one - nuclear weapons, pollution, destruction of the environment . . . We need to start paying attention." He found one of the webpages he'd bookmarked and rolled his chair back to let Tonks come over and take a look whilst Scott flipped through printouts, his brows drawn together thoughtfully.

"Fucking hell," Tonks said after a moment when she reached a picture of what had been left of Nagasaki and Hiroshima. "_Muggles _did that?"

"Muggles did that - fifty years ago. Imagine what they could do now. What's the total number of people Voldemort's killed at once? Does it even hit triple digits? Or Grindelwald before him? But 120,000 died in those bombings you're looking at - and that's only those killed in the initial blast. They've estimated that twice that died in total, including those from wounds later. Is there a wizard alive who could equal it? What the _hell _are we thinking?" Scott was listening to him now as well. "We've let this happen right under our noses and didn't even notice - or discounted it because they're _just_ Muggles. We need to pull our heads out of our collective arses and start paying attention to what's going on in _their_ world - because like it or not, it affects ours."

Scott was chewing the inside of his cheek thoughtfully as he listened. "What does this have to do with You Know Who?"

"Not a damn thing, directly," Cedric replied.

"Then couldn't it wait?"

Cedric resisted throwing up his hands. "Don't you think that's part of the problem? We've been saying, 'Couldn't it wait?' for how long now? When are we going to start paying attention? You asked me earlier if I were wasting my time." Cedric gestured to the printouts in Scott's hand. "Is that wasting my time?"

Scott tossed down the papers on Cedric's desk. "Be realistic. Somebody at the Ministry's aware of all this already, I'm sure."

"_Who_?" Cedric practically shouted. "Who, Scott? Name the Ministry department or employee who handles these things. You can't . . . because it doesn't exist. We worry about Obliviating them, or somebody misusing their technology, or keeping our world separate from theirs - but nobody's looking beyond that. We think that as long as we remain hidden from them, nothing they do matters. But Merlin's beard! When are we going to wake up?"

Scott glanced at the images on the computer screen. "You said it yourself - that happened fifty years ago in one of their world wars." Before Cedric could explode, he held up a hand. "Peace. Let me finish. I'm not saying these things are unimportant, and maybe you're right. We should be paying attention. But we've got a megalomaniac to deal with at the moment. I think that's a _bit_ more pressing, don't you?"

"I never said fighting Voldemort wasn't important! But this matters too."

"You told Scrimgeour you could help find him by reading Muggle newspapers!"

"No, I _said_ I might find out something he's up to that we wouldn't automatically know about - and I did, with the Wigworthy case. But that's not why this really _matters_ - "

"TIME OUT!" Tonks interrupted. "Do you two always argue like this? It's entertaining, I admit, but really. Scott, we still need a Floo Regulation Department, rampaging dark lords or not. Life goes on. It's not as if Cedric's job is _interfering_ with the war. But Cedric, Scott's not putting you down, he's worried about you." The humor disappeared from her face. "The Aurors have assembled a list of every wizard who has Muggle ties, but especially those who seem to promote Muggle interests. Not only is your name on that list, it's near the top."

This news gave Cedric momentary pause, but he wasn't that surprised. He'd wondered himself if his new job might not be putting himself in a dangerous position, but - "There are plenty of reasons for Voldemort to target me, you know, whatever my position at the Ministry."

"Would you stop saying the name?" Scott snapped.

"I think I've earned the right - "

"SHUT UP!" Tonks interrupted again. "Good grief. Cedric, you know very well the power of a name, and Scott, stop antagonizing him."

Cedric took a deep breath, struggling for calm. Part of him was touched that they were worried, but another part was simply annoyed. "Like I said, You Know Who has plenty of reasons already to target me. This new job is the least of them. So while I appreciate your worry . . . really, I do" - he looked point blank at Scott - "I don't think being the Minister's advisor on Muggle matters has put me any more in danger than I already was."

Sighing, Scott sank into one of the other chairs and rubbed at his eyes. "Why do you have to be so damn stubborn? Yes, you were already a target, but now you're both a target and a potential example. Don't you get it, Ced? You're sitting in the Ministry of _Magic _with an office full of Muggle equipment!"

Leaning over, Tonks laid a hand on Cedric's arm. "Scott's right, you know. It's not just that you're Harry's friend or sided with Dumbledore. You and I, a Malfoy and a Black - even if we don't wear those names, our mothers did and we represent a special category of offense to them because of it. I'm a mongrel and you're close enough to being a pureblood to be considered a blood traitor. You Know Who would love to get his hands on either of us."

"And you think he's more likely to get his hands on me because I'm in this _chair_, right? I need _special protection_." It exploded out of him with a vicious bitterness like pus from a wound.

For a moment, all three of them went completely silent, then Scott said, "Don't be an idiot," even as Tonks said, "Believe it or not, the chair had nothing to do with our concern."

"It didn't?" Cedric asked, reluctant to back down. "I'm a _cripple_. I can't _run_."

"You can still Apparate fine, last I saw," Scott snapped. "What's wrong with you? I didn't pity you at Hogwarts, and I'm not going to start now. I'm trying to talk some sense into you, and I'd be saying the same bloody thing if you still had two good legs."

That shut up Cedric. He rubbed at his forehead, unsure how to explain the degree of helpless frustration he felt at being handicapped. "I want to do something that matters."

"Fine! Do something that matters! But maybe you could find something that doesn't paint a gigantic _target_ across your back, yeah?"

"Like what? I'm utterly useless now. I can't fight - "

"You did pretty well in the Department of Mysteries."

Cedric looked away. "I endangered people trying to cover for me. My mother was rather _emphatic_ about that."

"Aunt Lucy means well," Tonks broke in, "but sometimes she's a little brutal. You were no more of a risk than any of the other students, and if the whole thing was a fuck-up, well, that wasn't your fault. You, Scott and the others went there to stop Harry. You're a long way from helpless, all right? We just . . . don't want you to turn _reckless_ trying to prove you're not helpless."

"You think that's what this job is? Me being reckless?" Cedric looked from one to the other, beginning to realize Tonks hadn't come along idly. They were staging what they considered an intervention. Neither of them seemed to realize how important Cedric believed his work to be. "What do you think? That I . . . made up my position just to yank Voldemort's chain?"

"Stop saying the name!" Scott practically shouted. "And well, perhaps you've got a point about the Muggles - but did you really need to create this job right _now_?"

Cedric hesitated only a moment before saying, "Yes, I did." Both Scott and Tonks appeared baffled. "Perhaps it does put me at risk, but Scrimgeour wants me here, in his office, and he's willing to give me what _I_ want in return. This is what I want - this job. If I wait until You Know Who is defeated, do you think he'd even give me the time of day? Absolutely not. He's humoring me; I know it. Let him. I'm going to prove the Ministry _needs _this position."

Scott sighed audibly and Tonks trapped her tongue tip between her teeth. "You are stubborn," she said.

"I'm also right."

"Maybe," she allowed, as Scott said, "You're gambling on Scrimgeour letting you _keep_ this job when the war's over."

"True enough."

"It's one hell of a gamble. Your safety for a position he'll likely revoke."

Cedric shrugged. "It's worth it. To me, it's worth it. Crisis creates opportunity."

"Crisis also creates dead people if they don't watch their backs," Scott replied.

* * *

><p>She heard soft grunts even before she opened the door, and her body responded with a flush, tingling. What was he doing in there? He wasn't . . . he wasn't <em>wanking<em>, was he? She suspected he still did, regular sex with her notwithstanding. He was a boy. As quietly as she could, she opened the inside door to the carriage house, muscles tense, shy but driven by curiosity.

He wasn't wanking. He was working out. Cable pulleys rasped softly in a steady pull, pause, and release as he reclined against the bench, back to her. She must have made some sound because he turned his head to look over his shoulder, smiled briefly, then went back to his set.

Without the prefects' bath, he'd been forced to find new ways to keep his muscle tone, and when he'd gone for his yearly checkup at St. Mungo's, he'd scheduled a visit with his old medi-wizard, Michael Dyer. They'd talked exercises. But his new regimen required new equipment, and if magic made things easier, it still wasn't cheap. He'd used the last of his Triwizard winnings to buy a magically modified cable machine and accessories. Hermione knew he'd been reluctant to take all the prize money - or any of the prize money - but she wished now he hadn't been quite so noble. He needed equipment that fully mobile people didn't. She felt petty for worrying about such things, but she worried about such things.

"Hi," he said now, letting go of the cable rings and taking a moment to Summon his water bottle and drink. She watched his Adam's apple bob. His hair dripped from sweat and his skin was slick. He wasn't wearing a shirt, just shorts. The last of the evening sunlight poured in the high windows of the old carriage house, turning him to bronze and scattering gold on the rough floor and bare stone walls. With a flick of his hand, he sent the bottle back, then grabbed the pull bar above his head and shifted his weight, gripping it and pulling it down to his chest.

He'd leaned forward on the slanted bench so she could see the sculpted poetry of his back. Muscles slid under fair skin in a complicated dance of anatomic harmony. Down, hold, release, down, hold, release. His arms and shoulders _rippled_. He was beautiful, and her mouth went dry, cheeks and neck flushing.

She should say something, shouldn't she? He'd greeted her and she should say something, not just stand rooted to the spot, staring. But she couldn't find her voice. She felt as warm as he looked, and grew aware she'd gone embarrassingly _slick_ between the legs. What was wrong with her? She slept with him every night, watched him dress in the morning, was even privy to his less attractive bodily functions like the use of a urinal in bed, or the fact his weaker sphincter muscles gave him occasional problems with flatulence (which embarrassed him no end). She knew his body, was comfortable with it now and could look at it without an automatic thrill. She liked that, liked the easy intimacy.

She didn't like this feeling of being on edge with spontaneous arousal. Hot and bothered and discombobulated. This was _lust_. Not love. Lust. The sound of his heavy breath and the sight of the muscles in his arms and shoulders pulling hard made her want to crawl atop him on that bench and lick all the sweat off, rub herself against him until she was electric with sensation.

Desire pulled her forward until she stood behind him, one hand going out to trail the pads of her fingers over his shoulder. He felt hot, and this close, she could smell him. He smelled good. Strong and sharp. Her touch made him start and almost release the bar. His head turned again so he could look up at her, eyes full of a wordless question. Whatever he saw in her own eyes must have given him an answer because he let the bar go as her palms moved mindlessly over his flesh - the arch of his shoulders sloping into the smooth flatness of shoulder blades and the valley of his spine between, twisted as he turned to look at her. She ran a thumb down bone, making him shiver a little.

Then he was pulling her around in front of him. "Want something, Granger?" he whispered.

_You_, she almost whispered, but couldn't. It wasn't arousal that closed her lips. It was prudery and propriety. Good girls didn't straddle boys on benches and initiate sex. They waited for their boys to come to them, then gave in from love. Not lust. And if love transformed into lust in the act, well, bodies responded to proper stimulation. That was just evolution. But good girls didn't _want_. Good girls weren't _dirty_ that way, and what would he think of her if she wanted him? Wanted to feel his body heavy on hers, his prick grinding into her fanny, his mouth hot on her breast? She wanted him to fuck her. Not make love to her, _fuck_ her.

He was pulling her down sideways onto his lap, eyes still holding hers. "Want something?" he asked again.

She blushed and dropped her gaze, fingers going out to play with the seatbelt that held him on the bench. "Just got back from the Burrow," she said. "Sorry I was running late. Our booklists came today and Mrs. Weasley plans to take us to Diagon Alley next week."

His face shifted from playfully sly to something more rigid. Disappointment? He reached for one of the cable rings. "Hand me the other?" he asked, pointing to it. Rising from his lap, she did. She wished she could interpret his expression.

He pulled the rings up to shoulder height and lowered them again. "What is that you're doing?" she asked. "The exercise, I mean."

"Cable fly," he replied between pants.

"What muscles does it work?"

"Shoulder deltoids."

Fresh sweat had broken out on his upper lip, brow and neck, and the lift and fall of his shoulders mesmerized. He wasn't looking at her, but past her at the old carriage-house doors. His breath sounded loud in the enclosed space, along with the pneumatic hiss of the cable machine. "You're getting bigger," she said abruptly, then rubbed her nose. "I mean the muscles in your chest are."

"I'm a bit pumped right now, Granger. Muscles do that when you exercise. They'll go down to normal again in an hour."

"Really?" She was intrigued. "But I meant in general. You're bigger now - your chest."

He stopped and just breathed for a moment. "You've been looking, have you?" That amused slyness was back, as if her looking might please him.

"You'd like that, you peacock."

He blushed a little. "Perhaps I'd like to think my girl doesn't find me hard on the eye."

Lips twitching, she crossed her arms. "You know you're not. Don't even pretend to doubt that. You're beautiful."

He looked up at her again and didn't reply immediately, then said, "My legs aren't what they were. The muscles are withering, physical therapy or not. Trousers conceal it a bit, but when we're in bed . . . well, I know how it looks."

Insight struck, although really, she shouldn't be so dense. "When we're in bed, I'm not thinking about your legs," she told him.

He was eying her, as if he didn't entirely believe her. "A minute ago, you were, erm - well. Then you weren't . . . " He trailed off, not finishing, nor clarifying the muddled words.

Confused, she frowned. "What are you talking about?"

He glanced back at the door. "When you came in. I thought you were looking at me like, well, _that_ . . . then you weren't." He frowned in turn himself and stared down into his lap. He still gripped one of the cable rings, arm raised, and played with it absently, twisting it back and forth, back and forth

If she'd begun to twig the problem, it was one thing to understand intellectually, quite another to get past her own hang-ups long enough to help him past his. "Do you want me to look at you like that?"

He glanced at her as if she were thick. "Don't you like me to look at _you_ like that?"

Did she? She crossed her arms beneath her breasts, hugging herself as she struggled with how to reply. The silence stretched. Snapped. "Yes," she admitted finally. "But it's complicated."

"Uncomplicate it for me."

"I don't want a boy who only wants me for my cleavage. Not that I've got any, but I've more respect for myself than that . . . " She trailed off, hesitated, then blurted, "I like being pretty to you, but I've never been the _pretty girl_. I'm the swot with the frizzy hair."

Cedric was staring at her as if she'd picked up his free weights and brained him with them. "I thought we had this conversation last Christmas on the Hogwarts Express?"

She pinched the bridge of her nose. "I want to want you. I'm just . . . afraid." At his quizzical head tilt, she went on, "I'm afraid you'll think I'm some slag."

He looked, if possible, even more confused. "You're just a bundle of neuroses, aren't you?"

Lips pursed a moment, she snapped back, "And you're not?"

"I don't think I'm quite that bad, no." But it was said gently, and he reached out to snag her elbow, using the cable ring for balance, drawing her closer. She let him, stopping beside the bench. He let her elbow go and pushed up the bottom of her blouse, kissing her tummy. It was an oddly affectionate gesture. Then he dropped the blouse hem and looked up at her. "Sex and love - sometimes they're different, but sometimes they're not. If I think you have pretty breasts, it doesn't mean I don't think you have a pretty mind too."

"The breasts will sag, Cedric. Eventually."

He moved his hand up to cup one, thumb crossing the nipple, back and forth, dragging a little gasp from her as it puckered. "My legs are going to atrophy further, no matter what I do - and it'll happen sooner than your breasts will sag."

"I'm not in love with your legs."

"And I'm not in love with your breasts - nice as they are. Do me a favor and don't treat me as if I'm a shallow prat, all right?"

That stung, and she could feel her cheeks flush. "Sorry." She slid her hands into his sweat-damp hair. "I just . . . I worry I'm not enough. You asked if I want you to look at me like _that_ - I do. But then I worry that someday you'll stop."

"I worry about the same thing." He pushed his head against her hand like a cat begging to be petted. "I have these useless legs and drag myself around on crutches. I don't want to be vain, but I can't seem to stop letting it _bother _me. I want you to want me anyway. I _need_ you to want me anyway, Hermione."

"I don't want you anyway. I just want you," she whispered, his pain enough to finally grant her permission. Straddling the bench and his legs, she situated her body so she could settle down on his lap facing him, her hands smoothing over the still-damp skin of his shoulders. He welcomed her, nuzzling at her neck. "You like my breasts," she said. "I like your shoulders. And I think you _are_ as neurotic as I am, whatever you claim."

He spit laughter, releasing the cable ring so he could slide both arms around her waist and pull her against him. "Perhaps so."

Bending, she did what she'd wanted to do since opening the door. She licked the sweat from his throat and jaw and neck. He let her, lying passive against the angled back of the bench, hands bunched in her shirt. "Love me," he whispered. She wondered what that meant. Was he asking for her adoration? That, he had already. Completely. Consumingly. Or was it just a polite euphemism requesting sex, evidence of his habitual reticence?

Lifting her head, she spoke against his cheek as she dragged short nails down his back on either side of the narrow bench. "I do love you. I'll love you till the stars go out." She shifted forward a little, bringing her crotch up against his, teasing through their clothing. She could feel him hard beneath her. "But is that _all_ you wanted?"

He laughed; she could feel it vibrate his throat and chest. "I could be persuaded to more."

"I thought that was my line."

"It is your line; you're usually the coy one. My turn. You seduce _me_ this evening."

Irritation bubbled, but she pushed it aside. He _was_ usually the one to initiate things. She left it to him to ask _her_, persuade _her_. She wasn't reluctant nor did she play hard to get, but she'd insisted he be the pursuer. It all circled around again to _nice girls_. Nice girls didn't proposition their boyfriends. Yet she'd just seen how insecure he felt. 'I need you to want me,' he'd said.

So she arched her hips forward as she returned to licking his neck and shoulder. He tasted salty and the musk of his sweat sent a giddy shiver all through her, racing along her nerves. His hands were bunched against her back again, fisted in her shirt. She bit him at the juncture of neck and shoulder, then felt him gasp when she sucked hard at the skin between her teeth. Pulling away to inspect, she felt inordinately pleased with herself at the hot red bruise that would turn dark by morning. He watched her from the corners of his eyes. "You gave me a love bite."

"Yes, I think I did." She shifted her gaze from the bruise to his face. "Marked," she said, leaning in to whisper against his ear. "Just in case any of those pretty young things in the Minister's office think you're on the market, you know."

He laughed, slightly breathless. "Jealous, poppet?"

"Not jealous," she replied, tongue sliding out to lick his earlobe. "Possessive." His gasp at the touch tightened her tummy and she pushed her crotch harder against his.

The hands bunched at the back of her blouse began pulling it up over her head. "You have on too many clothes, Miss Granger."

"So do you, Mr. Diggory."

"I barely have on any."

"Barely any is still too many," she replied, letting him get her blouse off, then smirking as she slid off the bench onto her knees beside it. Watching her, his lips had parted and his eyes were dilated. If she were going to seduce him, she'd do it right . . . even if she had no real clue how to be 'sexy' like that. Reaching up, she got her hands in the waistband of his track shorts and began tugging them down; he reached for the bar above his head to lift up so she could ease them over his arse. Then leaning in, she licked his hipbone like she'd licked his neck and shoulders earlier. It wasn't because she couldn't keep her mouth off of him; it was to distract him whilst she raised the near-dead weight of his right leg over the bench until both were on one side in order to drop his shorts to his ankles. The bench belt kept him from sliding off. Getting Cedric dressed and undressed was just awkward, and there was no way to make it _not_ awkward. When they made love at night, he usually took off his clothes ahead of time or they pushed down his pyjama bottoms to his thighs and left them. The best she could do was to keep his mind off of it.

Shorts and shoes gone finally, she lifted his right leg back over the bench so that he straddled it once more, buck naked. "That's quite a sight," she said as she rose up, unhooking the back of her bra and tossing it aside without fanfare. Perhaps she should have done a strip tease, but she'd have felt ridiculous.

He didn't seem to care, was staring at her bared tits. "So's that," he replied, reaching up to touch one but she flinched back.

"Ah-ah. I'm the seducer here. I'll tell you when you get to play with the toys."

He snorted. "I don't seem to recall forbidding you to touch _my_ toys before."

"Your choice. But I say no touchy yet."

She probably sounded more like a nanny than a tart, and he appeared close to laughter. "Bossy, aren't you? I think you need a dominatrix outfit."

She made a face as she unzipped her shorts and shimmied out of them - the shimmy more for his benefit than because they were tight. "I'd look a right slapper in leather, fishnet stockings, and a whip, wouldn't I?"

He burst out laughing, which rather killed the mood, but she found herself grinning too. And perhaps they'd needed that. Tension drained, leaving her lighter hearted. "I'm not very good at this seduction business, am I?" she asked as he locked arms around her waist to pull her closer.

"You're just not that sort," he told her, smiling and pushing her hair away from her face. "You're sexiest when you're not trying."

"You're the one who wanted me to try."

"I didn't mean literally. I just . . . do you want to have sex?"

She blinked at him. "Well, I'd rather thought that the point of getting naked even if Little Cedric down there seems not to have caught on yet." At the moment, his prick was limp beneath her, perhaps from all the laughing.

"No, I mean, do _you_ want to have sex?" His face was deadly serious now.

Bemused, she blinked back. "Yes."

"You're not just doing it for me?"

Now she got it. "No, I'm not." Frowning thoughtfully, she ran palms across his shoulders and down his arms a little, squeezing gently. "You're . . . sexy when you work out." A bit shyly, she reached over to snare one of the cable rings and hand it to him, then the other.

He took them both. "You want me to do cable flies . . . naked?"

She nodded, certain the blood was staining her face, but he didn't argue, just began as she leaned away to watch, running fingertips over his chest and belly. Then standing, she walked around the cable machine so she stood behind him, fingers still trailing over his skin. He'd slowed down and after a minute or two, stopped, breathing heavily. He didn't speak. Neither did she. She just slid her hands over his shoulders and down his chest from behind, kissing the nape of his neck. He let go of the rings; they clanged against the steel bars of the cable machine. "Come back around front," he said softly. She did. He wasn't flaccid anymore, and she straddled him again, rubbing her slickness against him, coating him. His hands had gone up to her tits, and she didn't stop him this time, arched her back instead to grant him easier access.

"If this is my reward," he whispered, "I'll do cable flies naked more often."

She giggled, then protested, "Don't make me giggle."

He bent to catch her nipple in his mouth, which elicited a whine instead. One hand went to the other breast and his free hand snaked down between their bodies to rub her clit. She rocked against him, keening and squirming, then pushed his hands and mouth away. "I'm seducing you, I thought," she said, breath heavy, hands slipping down to grip his erection and pump it. She wanted him inside her _right now, _and raised up to angle him, then sink down. It was wet and stretched her, and made him gasp. This probably wasn't very studied or elegant, but he wasn't complaining. She held still for a moment, then began to move. At first, intercourse had been raw and painful - painful enough that she'd preferred the preliminaries - but that had passed. Now she _liked_ having him inside her, liked the way it felt. There was a friction tickle when she got the angle just right, and if she moved fast enough, it built, curling up through her belly. Straddling the bench like this was awkward, but she could control the rhythm.

She opened her eyes to focus on him. Teeth gritted, lips drawn back, he breathed through his mouth, his hips rocking, trying to match her speed. Long fingers clutched at the small of her back or her hips, pulling her close so he could feel all her skin along his, chest and belly to chest and belly. "Oh, God," she was saying, over and over, not really thinking about what came out of her mouth. "Faster."

"Faster," he answered, or agreed, or echoed, she wasn't sure which. He was urging her on like a jockey might the horse although she rode him, and he bit his lip, as if trying not to come.

"Don't come," she gasped. "Don't come." She was so close; she tried to focus on the building friction between her legs, swelling like magma before the eruption. "Don't come. Oh, don't come yet."

"Come for me," he told her, mouth so close to hers she could feel his breath on her lips. She opened her own mouth and licked at his, then his tongue was there to meet it but neither of them was focused on what their tongues were doing. Up and down, up and down - the swelling was rising as she went up and down on him, tits bouncing. His hands cupped them, pinching nipples and rolling them as she slammed down into his lap. He was starting to whine, which she knew meant he couldn't hold back any longer.

But she didn't need him to. She was _there_, climax peaking inside her as her whole body clenched, fingers gripping his shoulders, thighs gripping his hips, cunt gripping his cock. Her toes curled and she let out a sound between a groan and a wail. He was bucking up against her, holding on tight enough to bruise and biting at her collarbone, but she wasn't really paying attention. She just rode out the flow, her skin hot, eyes squeezed shut.

It went on for a full minute, counting aftershocks, both of them jerking a little against the other, flesh hypersensitive until she slumped bonelessly against him, pushing him back into the bench again, his arms loose around her waist. Her throat felt raw, and her vagina too, her hips sore from being spread at an awkward angle. But they'd done it finally; they'd managed to come together. And if she knew it was hardly necessary and certainly not the status quo, it still felt as if they'd passed some important milestone. "Did we set a Muffling Spell?" she finally asked.

"I didn't. Did you?"

"Oh, no," she moaned, face flaming and buried against his shoulder. "The whole house probably heard us."

"We're in the carriage house, poppet, not my bedroom. It's a bit detached."

Giggles shook her but she didn't lift her face. "Doesn't matter. The whole house heard us."

He was giggling too. "Probably." After a moment, they both subsided and she sat up. He stroked her cheek. "Sex is more fun when we're laughing. And when I know you want it."

Laying her palm in the centre of his chest, she said, "I want it. I'm just . . . not always very good at telling you." She made a face. "As you pointed out - I fail at seduction."

He just grinned. "You do. But you give orders well. Next time, my little dominatrix, just tell me, 'We're going to bed so I can shag you silly.'"

Eyes rolling, she said, "That was pathetic even for an after-sex joke, Cedric."

"Who said I was joking?"

* * *

><p><strong>Notes:<strong>Yes, that's right - Hermione didn't do as well on her OWLs in this version of things. She had a lot more on her mind, I think, and it wouldn't have been realistic for her to pass with 10 /O/s and only 1 /E/, so I reduced two of her /O/s to /E/s.


	6. Stealth

The first Saturday in August was lazy. The odd summer chill had dissipated unexpectedly for a day or two, replaced by a muggy heat that choked the fields and made the sky hazy-white. Butterflies and dandelion seeds drifted in the pregnant air while bees engaged in a frenzy of pollination, dragonflies danced on the Diggory's pasture pond, and birds sang. The whole world was green - the rich, dark green of late summer as Mother Earth lay heavy in her final trimester before she produced her autumn bounty.

Cedric and Hermione had been out for a walk earlier. They'd followed the footpath that fronted the Diggory property, then wandered across the wide expanse of south lawn past the barn and the barking of crups, out into the pasture to sit by the pond and skip stones. Cedric still struggled to keep up his stamina on crutches. Now, a bit damp around the edges from sweat, they were back inside and sprawled on his bed. Both wore lightweight Muggle clothes, and Cedric liked the way her strappy top clung to her curves, but didn't say so. He didn't want her to think he wanted sex all the time, even if he did.

Flat on his back, he was reading one of his ever-present newspapers gripped in one hand above his head while the other arm cradled a dozing Hermione, her head on his shoulder and Esiban curled between their feet. And however much he liked sex, he liked this more - just this, to cuddle with her in his big bed, nowhere to go. Warm as they both were, he still didn't want to lie apart from her. That was coming sooner than either of them wished. And not for one year, but two. Sometimes he wondered how they'd manage, and sometimes (in a small, dark part of his mind) he wondered whether they should try. He always squashed that voice. He didn't want to hear it, impatient already with the surprise of his co-workers at the Ministry that he continued to see a _schoolgirl_. If she'd been a seventh year, it might not have elicited such notice; probably a third or more of wizarding marriages resulted from romantic ties formed at Hogwarts. Theirs was a small, inbred society. But those marriages didn't necessarily end happily ever after; his own parents might be a good example. Not everybody could be Molly and Arthur Weasley.

Nonetheless, the fact Hermione was _two_ years his junior and Muggle-born caused mild consternation among his co-workers. They expected the affair to fade with distance and time, and one or two of the younger women were lining up to make a bid for the presumed vacant spot at his side. Cedric recognized those looks they shot him, and he'd overheard a couple of conversations he probably hadn't been meant to overhear. One advantage-disadvantage of being in the chair was that people didn't necessarily stop to think he might be on the other side of a partition if they couldn't see his head over the top. But their doubts and ugly speculation made him that much more determined _not _to let distance drive him from Hermione. What they had wasn't about sharing revision for classes or trips to Hogsmeade or giggling escapes from the clutches of Filch and Mrs. Norris. It never had been.

Abruptly, she shifted on his shoulder and he glanced down at her. "Thought you were sleeping?"

"Mmm," she said, eyes only half open as she rose slightly. "Was. Sort of. Drifting, really."

"Knut for your thoughts?"

She smiled at him. "Didn't have any worth even a knut, sorry. I was vaguely wondering what Berry was making for dinner, but that's about it."

"Food was the extent of your thoughts? Are you certain you're my poppet and not Ron Weasley Polyjuiced?"

She made a face. "I sincerely doubt Ron would be sleeping on your shoulder."

"She shoots, she scores," he replied, smiling. "But it's hard to imagine you awake and not thinking about something more profound than food."

She plopped her head back onto his shoulder. "Don't _want_ to think."

Blinking at that, he laid aside his folded newspaper and shifted so he could see her a bit better without dislodging her from his arm. "What's up?"

She shook her head, but he knew it was feeble and more guilt than a desire not to tell. Hermione had become so used to having Harry and Ron confide in her but not burdening them that even now, she found it difficult to open up immediately. He had to coax her a bit. "Tell me."

Unprepared for the sudden stranglehold of her arms hard around his neck and shoulders, he was momentarily stunned before letting his own arms come up to hold her tightly in return, kissing her temple. She wasn't crying, or shaking, but she also wasn't easing up any. He waited. After a while, she said, "I was thinking about next week - going to Diagon Alley for our books. What that means."

He kissed her temple again, not sure how to reply. It wasn't as if they could avoid the impending separation, or even wanted to - at least on one level. Hermione loved her studies, and it was as important to him that she finish as it was to her. After a while, he said only, "I've been ticking off the days in my head too. I've got so used to you right here." He pulled her against his side to illustrate what he meant. "Not having you there - I'll feel like an amputee."

She smiled at that; he could feel the curl of her lips against his neck. Rising a little, she cupped his cheek. "I can't get enough of touching you; I need to store it all up to get me through the cold months alone."

He couldn't help snorting a little in amusement. "You sound like you'll be hibernating up there. Were you a squirrel in a former life?" He ran a fond hand over her bushy hair.

She rolled her eyes and smacked his shoulder. "You certainly know how to kill a mood, Mr. Romantic."

"Sorry. None too good at the soppy stuff."

A grin tugged at her lips. "Usually you're much more the sop than I."

Grinning back, he curled an arm around her shoulders, pulling her back down, then turned a little so they could hold one another loosely on the sheets. He didn't say anything else. She didn't either. And although both of them were habitually _busy_ - finding it hard to waste time doing nothing at all - they spent half an hour there, faces level but eyes closed, sometimes kissing lightly but mostly just breathing each other.

* * *

><p>"If you're wondering what that smell is, Mother, a Mudblood just walked in."<p>

The voice belonged to Draco Malfoy, who was being fitted at Madam Malkin's for new, elegant, forest green robes. He was standing in front of a mirror and had just noticed the reflections of Harry, Ron and Hermione over his shoulder. He didn't bother to turn, just gave that patented smirk he probably thought looked self-assured, but struck Hermione as ridiculous. Harry and Ron had - predictably - jumped in front of her to level wands at Malfoy's back.

"Oh, really," she muttered under her breath even as Madam Malkin came around a rack of robes, scolding, "I don't think there's any need for language like that!" Spotting Harry and Ron, she added, "And I don't want wands drawn in my shop either!"

Hermione yanked futilely at Ron's arm. "No, don't. Honestly, it's not worth it . . . "

"Yeah, like you'd dare do magic out of school," Malfoy taunted. "Where's your crippled lover, Granger? Did he finally get tired of you and dump you like the rubbish you are?"

"That's quite enough," Madam Malkin snapped, turning to look somewhere deeper in the shop. "Madam - please - ?"

Draco's mother strolled out from behind the clothing rack even as Cedric, on crutches, appeared at Hermione's shoulder. When they'd entered, he'd stayed near the door because the robe shop was too stuffed with racks and tables for him to manoeuvre easily in the chair even with magic. He must have got out the crutches as soon as he'd heard Malfoy's voice. Now, glaring at Narcissa Malfoy, he raised his chin. "Your son acts like he was raised in a barn - horrible manners."

"His manners are saved for those who deserve them," she replied, then glanced at Harry and Ron. "Put those wands away. If you attack my son again, I'll ensure that it's the last thing you ever do."

"Really?" Harry asked, not lowering his wand even a fraction. Instead he stepped forward. The shop was small, and only a couple of yards had separated them in the first place. Now he was glaring into Mrs. Malfoy's face.

Hermione moved back against Cedric, afraid for Harry and seeking comfort. "Don't let her . . . " she began in a whisper.

"She wouldn't dare," he replied equally softly. "But my wand's in my hand."

"Going to get a few Death Eater pals to do us in, are you?" Harry was saying.

Madam Malkin's response was almost comical. She clutched at her chest and went bone white. "Really! You shouldn't accuse - dangerous thing to say - wands away, please!"

Neither Harry nor Ron obeyed, while Cedric remained rigid behind Hermione, watching but not intervening. Hermione found herself wracking her brain for what Lucy Diggory would do right then. Mrs. Malfoy was speaking again. "I see that being Dumbledore's favourite has given you a false sense of security, Harry Potter. But Dumbledore won't always be around to protect you."

Harry exaggerated peering all around the shop. "Wow . . . look at that . . . he's not here now! So why not have a go? They might be able to find you a double cell in Azkaban with your loser of a husband!"

Draco made an angry movement towards Harry, but tripped on his not-fully-pinned robe. Ron laughed even as Hermione sucked in breath. Cedric still didn't move. "Don't you dare talk to my mother like that, Potter!" Malfoy half shouted.

"It's all right, Draco," Mrs. Malfoy said, holding him back with a grip on his shoulder. "I expect Potter will be reunited with dear Sirius before I am reunited with Lucius."

Harry's face went white and he raised his wand, but unable to bear it further, Hermione pushed forward between him and Draco. "No!" she snapped. Drawing herself up as she'd seen Mrs. Diggory do, she said, "Think, would you? Is that ill-mannered puppy worth being expelled from Hogwarts? Dumbledore would be so disappointed in you." She shot Malfoy a purse-lipped glance. "As for your remarks, I won't dignify them with a reply."

That seemed to halt not only Harry, but also the Malfoys. Madam Malkin took advantage of their silence to get back to business. Twitching at one of the sleeves on Draco's robe, she said, "I think this left sleeve could come up a little bit more, dear, let me just - "

"Ow!" Draco bellowed, slapping the old woman's hands away. "Watch where you're putting your pins, woman! Mother - I don't think I want these anymore." And he yanked the robes over his head, throwing them at Madam Malkin's feet.

"You're right, Draco," Mrs. Malfoy replied, looking Hermione up and down, half contemptuous, half amused. "Now that I know the kind of scum who shops here, we'll do better at Twilfitt and Tattings. They're a bit more . . . discerning in their clients."

" - which is probably why they were in Gringotts' the other day, applying for a loan to keep their shop from going under," Cedric said _sotto-voce_, but clearly enough to be heard by everybody. Harry snorted, along with Ron, Madam Malkin appeared surprised, and Mrs. Malfoy paused at the door to glance back at him.

"I can't imagine how you would know that, Mr. Diggory, as goblins have better _manners_" - she stressed the word - "than to engage in _gossip _about the affairs of their customers."

"Let's say a little bird told me," he replied. "See you around."

"I sincerely hope not." Then she and her son were gone, the door slamming shut behind them.

"A little _bird_ . . . ?" Ron asked, looking over at Cedric.

"Fleur. She works in their loan department."

"She shouldn't be telling you such things," Hermione said.

"She probably shouldn't," Cedric replied easily as he balanced on one crutch to flip through the robes on the rack. His fingers lingered on a brown set, and Hermione remembered the fancy caramel-coloured ones she'd considered buying him for Christmas. Maybe she'd save up for them this year. "But apparently they were her clients from hell that week," Cedric went on, "so Fleur was venting. Given their apparent entitlement attitudes, they should get on famously with the Malfoys. Although I have to say, the utter disdain on your face when you called down Harry a minute ago would have done Fleur justice."

Hermione blushed. "I wasn't trying to mimic Fleur - or be disdainful. I was just . . . trying to imagine what your mother would have said."

He chuckled. "' . . . that ill-mannered puppy'? Yeah, I could just _hear_ her saying that, but don't make a habit of it, right? I don't want to marry my mother."

She froze - and he froze. It was clear the remark had just slipped out, but it wouldn't if it weren't on his mind. And while they'd acknowledged this relationship was no temporary school fling, actual _marriage _. . . Her alarm must have shown on her face because he said, "Er, that was figurative, you know. Not implying anything." Nodding, she looked down again at the rack of robes. "Hermione," he said softly. "I really was just speaking figuratively."

"I _know_," she replied, smiling at him. It must have soothed him because he relaxed. She decided not to dwell on it. Her own confused feelings on the matter puzzled her. She couldn't imagine marrying anybody _but_ him, yet the magnitude of that commitment seemed a bit much with two years before she even finished school, and a war looming.

Ron and Harry were busy talking to Madam Malkin about letting out their school robes while the shop owner ran her wand over the discarded ones Draco had been trying on as if vacuuming off dust. Hermione wanted a new set of robes herself like those Mrs. Diggory had given her the spring before. She needed more regular wizarding clothing, and now pulled a royal blue set from the rack, holding them up. "What do you think of these?"

"Pretty. Try them on." And things between them reverted to normal, the temporary tension fading.

Finished finally with the robe shop, they left to meet Hagrid outside. A small passing group of shoppers shot them furtive glances as they hurried past on some business, and if Cedric had told Hermione how Diagon Alley was now - muted and denuded of familiar crowds - seeing it had still been a shock. Mr. and Mrs. Weasley and Ginny appeared with packages of books in their arms. "Everyone all right?" Mrs. Weasley asked. "Got your robes? Right then, we can pop in at the Apothecary and Eeylops on the way to Fred and George's - stick close now . . . "

Throughout their stops at both shops, Mrs. Weasley kept glancing at her watch. "We really haven't got too long," she said when they'd exited Eeylops. "I'm sure Cedric and Arthur need to get back to work, but the boys are so looking forward to seeing all of you . . . " And she headed back up the alley again, glancing at shop numbers above doorways.

"The shop's right down there," Cedric said, pointing a few doors further down the row. "It's . . . hard to miss."

He was right. Hermione worried that her poor eyes might suffer retina strain from the window display alone. On one side, they had an assortment of goods that flashed and popped, revolved and shrieked, making her wince. On the other side was a Ministry-purple poster with bright yellow lettering, but with a message no Ministry poster would ever display:

**WHY ARE YOU WORRYING ABOUT  
>YOU-KNOW-WHO?<strong>

**YOU SHOULD BE WORRYING ABOUT  
>U-NO-POO -<strong>

**THE CONSTIPATION SENSATION  
>THAT'S GRIPPING THE NATION!<strong>

Harry and Ron were laughing, Mrs. Weasley appeared horrified, Mr. Weasley was trying not to laugh, while Cedric - who'd seen it all before - appeared more amused by them than the poster. Hermione wasn't sure what to think, although she agreed more with Mrs. Weasley who said, "They'll be murdered in their beds!" than with Ron, who declared, "No, they won't! This is brilliant." He and Harry were pushing into the shop eagerly. Hermione could see the place was packed with shoppers and glanced at Cedric.

"I'll wait out here," he said.

"Oh, no!" Mrs. Weasley protested. "Nobody's staying on his own, Cedric."

"Mrs. Weasley, I work in the Ministry. I spend half my lunches here."

"With Bill and Fred and George and Tonks and Scott and, well, Fleur too. You come on in here, young man. I'll make sure one of the boys finds a spot for you."

"If I can squeeze in," Hagrid told him, slapping his back, "I'm sure they've room for you."

Thus bullied into it, Cedric got out his crutches and entered, but Hermione could see he wasn't happy. She wondered if that were because he disliked being in a crowded store, or because he wasn't all that fond of the Weasley twins. Despite everything, Cedric, Fred and George remained on tentative terms. They weren't enemies, but they weren't friends. In fact, Cedric seemed to have difficulty with most of the Weasleys, Bill and Mr. Weasley excepted. He and Percy openly loathed each other, he got on badly with the twins, was viewed hostilely by Ron, and with tired tolerance by Ginny. Mrs. Weasley liked him, but Cedric was bit cool towards her. Hermione had never asked why, and didn't think Mrs. Weasley knew him well enough to realize, but she suspected the problem boiled down to a simple personality clash. Circumstance and war loyalties had thrown them all together, but she feared most of the Weasleys just rubbed Cedric up the wrong way.

Now, she left him by the door to wander around the shop with Ginny. Despite herself, Hermione was impressed by the array of items. She might find the twins exasperating, but had to admit they knew what would appeal to the public, and their merchandise included more than Skiving Snackboxes or Canary Creams. Some were actually useful, like their Self-Inking and Spell-Checking quills - Hermione picked up two of each - and some were entertaining but didn't encourage skipping class . . . could even be considered educational, like their reusable hangman. "Spell it or he'll swing!" the caption read, which - morbid or not - would certainly improve writing skills, wouldn't it? She was pleased to spot so many children gathered around in interest.

A display beside the hangman caught her eye and she pushed through to see better, picking up what turned out to be a small box. At first glance, from the cover and size, she'd thought it a Muggle paperback Romance, which seemed a strange thing for Fred and George to be carrying. But it wasn't a book. The sign above announced, "Patented Daydream Charms." She could feel Harry peering over her shoulder at the box cover featuring a buxom, swooning redhead and muscle-bound, tattooed fellow gripping her in his arms on the deck of a pirate ship. Hermione smirked and turned it over, moving it so Harry could see too. "'One simple incantation,'" she read, "'and you will enter a top-quality, highly realistic, thirty-minute daydream, easy to fit into the average school lesson and virtually undetectable (side effects include vacant expression and minor drooling). Not for sale to under-sixteens.'" Good Lord, what was _in _these - and drooling the only side effect? Not sticky knickers? "You know," she went on, "if this works as advertised, it's really extraordinary magic."

"For that, Hermione," said a voice behind them, "you can have one for free."

Hermione jumped and spun, looking up. Fred was standing there in _horrid_ magenta robes that clashed terribly with his hair - and she was quite sure he and George knew it too, had perhaps chosen the colour because of it. They had the _strangest_ senses of humour at times.

Fred was shaking Harry's hand, who was grinning back at him. Hermione raised the box she supposed was now hers. "Are you stuck with the characters on the cover or can you modify your daydream?" She was curious as to the extent of the charm, but wasn't about to ask about the "not for sale to under-sixteens" bit.

Fred shot her a knowing glance. "If you're asking whether you replace the pirate bloke with a swaggering, fully ambulatory Diggory sporting gold earrings, the answer is yes."

Certain her face had gone absolutely scarlet, Hermione glared back and ignored Harry's snigger. "I was simply inquiring about the extent of the charm, and I like Cedric just the way he is."

"Like me the way I am for what?" Cedric asked. Apparently, he'd given up on waiting by the door to come and join her near the counter. The way he kept popping up unnerved her.

"Hermione was wondering if she could import your image into one of our Patented Daydream Charms. She went right for the pirate version too. Ever considered lessons in swordsmanship and sailing, Diggs ol' boy?"

Cedric's expression was just the polite side of horrified. "What?"

"Oh, please," Hermione said, stepping away and tugging Cedric after. "Thank you, Fred, but I'm honestly not in the market for a pirate. I prefer my men shaved and showered, thank you."

"Sure you do, Hermione," Fred replied, grin wicked and ear-to-ear. "I think you secretly _want_ a rogue to invade your neatly ordered life and sweep you off your feet." He winked at Cedric, then slapped Harry's shoulder. "Come on, Harry, I'll give you the tour." And they ambled off.

"A rogue, eh?" Cedric asked when Fred was gone, and there was a glint in his eye that suggested he wasn't finished with the teasing.

She huffed. "Most certainly not. I just picked up the box on top. For a minute, I thought they were selling Muggle Romance novels which, I might add, I neither like nor read. I will admit it's a clever bit of magic" - she held up the box so he could read the back - "but that's all I said. The next thing I know, Fred's giving me one of them."

Cedric didn't immediately reply, scanning the description instead. "You're free advertising," he explained finally. "He expects you'll take it back to Hogwarts, your roommates will see it, and they'll get more orders as a result."

She rolled her eyes. "I'm more inclined to _hide_ it than leave it lying about."

"A guilty pleasure?"

"No! I don't _like_ Romances. Or pirates. Or rogues. Or even _fiction_, really. But insofar as I have a favourite fictional character, it was Elinor in _Sense and Sensibility_."

"In what?"

"Oh, for heaven's sake! You don't know the Brontës, you don't know Jane Austen - at least you've read Shakespeare. We've really got to do something about that, Cedric. I'll make a reading list of important Muggle novels for you, starting with Charles Dickens and Jane Austen."

He was laughing at her now. "Fine. I'll read those if you read my list of important wizarding literature, my little non-fiction girl."

Eyebrow up, she held out her hand to shake. "Deal."

He shifted his weight to one crutch and took it. "Deal. Now go and get a different box if you don't like pirates. He said you could have one for free; I doubt he cares which."

Hermione rolled her eyes, but did as he suggested. Ginny joined her as they glanced through boxes, sharing laughter over the absurd poses of the men and women. Ginny had no more patience for Romances than Hermione did. Besides the pirate, there were safari adventurers, what looked to be Muggle soldiers, an American Indian brave (which made Hermione snort and set it aside to show Cedric), as well as magical heroes such as Aurors, Curse Breakers, Quidditch players, and - "Is that Charlie?" she asked, picking up a box with a stocky, muscular, auburn-haired man standing in front of a dragon, bravely defending Yet Another Damsel in Distress.

"What?" Ginny asked, reaching over to take the box and gape at it. "Oh, my God, I think it is! Well, they changed his colouring a bit, but that's Charlie! He's going to _kill_ them!"

"No, he won't," said another voice - George this time as he swept past. "Who do you think suggested and then modelled for it? That one's our prototype." And laughing, he strode off.

Ginny was laughing too. "You know, he probably _did_. He'd think it funny." Hermione, who didn't know Charlie well, just shook her head. Ginny handed her the box. "You should take that one."

"No," Hermione said, putting it back with a distinct _thunk_. "I'll take the Indian one. Cedric will be amused."

Ginny eyed her. "The daydream is for _you_, Hermione. You don't always have to do what you think will please him."

"I don't," Hermione said. "But I'd still be more inclined to take the Auror or the Curse Breaker over a Dragon Handler."

"Not the Seeker?" Ginny asked, elbowing her, but laughing now.

Hermione glanced over her shoulder to where Cedric was examining a shelf full of Muggle tricks and novelty items. "I have my own," she said, but put down the box with the American Indian and picked up the one with the Quidditch player anyway. If she was stuck with one of these, she may as well get one in which she could most easily imagine Cedric. Smirking, Ginny just shook her head and continued to look through the boxes.

Fred had reappeared with Harry. "Haven't you girls found our special WonderWitch products yet?" Fred asked. "Follow me, ladies . . . "

With a glance at each other and rolled eyes, they trailed after. On a tall shelf near the window with the poster was a range of terrifyingly pink-packaged products around which a group of five teen girls had gathered, giggling. "Oh, Fred. That's . . . awful," Ginny muttered. "Could you _be_ any more clichéd?" Her expression was disgusted.

Fred either didn't hear or flat ignored her. "There you go - best range of love potions you'll find anywhere."

Eyebrow up, Ginny asked, "Do they actually work?"

"Certainly they work, for up to twenty-four hours at a time, depending on the weight of the boy in question - "

"- and the attractiveness of the girl," George added, reappearing at Fred's side. "But we're not selling them to our sister" - his face was stern - "not when she's already got about five boys on the go from what we've - "

"Whatever you've heard from Ron is a big fat lie," Ginny interrupted, albeit without heat. Instead, she leaned over to pick up a small pot to look at it. "What's this?"

"Guaranteed ten-second pimple vanisher," Fred said. "Excellent on everything from boils to blackheads, but don't change the subject. Are you or are you not currently going out with a boy called Dean Thomas?"

"Yes, I am," Ginny replied. "And last time I looked, he was definitely one boy, not five. What are those?"

She was pointing to some tiny pink balls of squeaking fur in a clear aquarium; they reminded Hermione disturbingly of baby Tribbles. "Pygmy Puffs," George explained. "Miniature puffskeins, we can't breed them fast enough . . . "

Hermione drifted away, leaving Ginny to the tender mercies of her brothers in order to rejoin Cedric. He was looking bored and glancing at his pocket watch. "How much longer do you have?" she asked, moving close to twine fingers in his robe and tilt up her chin to see him.

He bent to kiss her nose. "I was just thinking I need to be on my way. I've stretched lunch a bit. Being sort of my own boss, I can, but I shouldn't push it."

She nodded. "Thanks for coming along."

"Of course." He smiled down at her. "Any excuse to see you, poppet."

"Let Hagrid walk back with you to the Apparition point."

"Hermione - "

"Humour me. You shouldn't be out there on your own."

"Who'll walk back Hagrid?"

"Hagrid will be fine." And she patted his chest, then waved to the gamekeeper, who lumbered over. "Hagrid, Cedric needs to get back to the Ministry. Can you walk with him back to the Apparition Point?"

"Be glad to." He grinned at Cedric. "Come w'me, lad."

Cedric appeared annoyed, but kissed her quickly anyway - "I'll see you tonight" - before following Hagrid, who had the door open for him. Hermione watched them disappear then turned to rejoin Ginny, only to run smack into something that wasn't there.

"Ow!" said Ron's voice, even as Harry hissed, "Get under the cloak - quick."

Glancing all around - nobody was watching - she did so, whispering, "What are you _doing_?"

"Shh," Harry said, easing them all towards the door and slipping out behind a pair of boys, or young men, really - Hermione dimly recognized them as Ravenclaws from two years ahead of Cedric, which must mean they had real jobs now. In the street, Ron and Harry looked around, and Harry cursed under his breath.

"What is this about?" Hermione demanded.

"We saw Draco," Harry explained. "He was on his own, sneaking off somewhere. You saw how his mum was guarding him earlier."

"Regular mother wolf, that one," Ron agreed.

"She wouldn't let him out of her sight willingly - and it was clear he wanted to be. Now, he's sneaked off alone. I want to know what he's up to. It can't be good."

Hermione resisted sighing. Harry could be truly unreasonable about Draco sometimes. "He probably just wants to buy Firewhisky or something," she pointed out.

Ron shook his head. "Hermione, he could get that at home. I'm sure they've got a whole drinks cabinet full of it."

"Oh."

"He went that way," Harry said, pointing up the street. "Come on." They hurried off as quickly as they could without tripping each other. They were getting a bit big to all fit under the Invisibility Cloak, but fortunately, they'd been doing this now for five years, so they had practice. Ron, as the tallest, took the middle with Harry and Hermione walking to either side of him.

"That's him," Hermione hissed, pointing towards a blond figure turning left.

"Big surprise," Ron said.

Draco had just ducked into Knockturn Alley.

"Quick, or we'll lose him." Harry hurried them along.

"Someone will see our feet!" Hermione said.

"It doesn't matter," Harry said. "Just hurry!"

But by the time they turned into the rundown side alley where one could find the less-respectable stores that catered to the Dark Arts, there was nobody visible at all, at least not on the street. After the brief warm spell that past weekend, the weather had returned to the same oppressive grey it had been all summer, and between the narrow street, smoke-dull brick and overcast sky, Knockturn Alley seemed especially dreary. Passing the wide if greasy windows of Borgin and Burke's, Hermione spotted two figures inside the store and pinched Harry's arm. "Ow!" he said.

"Shh! Look! He's in there," she said, pointing towards the shop. Malfoy had his back to the street, talking to the shop owner, a stoop-shouldered, greasy-haired elderly man who regarded Draco with what Hermione thought a mixture of interest, fear and flat distaste. "If only we could hear what they're saying," she muttered.

"We can! Hang on," Ron said, inadvertently dropping boxes in his excitement - "Damn!" - but then he had the biggest of the boxes open and held up . . . "Extendable Ears, look!"

"Fantastic!" Hermione replied, hugging him spontaneously as he unravelled the fleshy-coloured strings and began to feed them towards the shop door. "Oh, I hope the door isn't Imperturbable - " she muttered.

"No!" said Ron in delight. "Listen!"

All three of them bent intently over the string ends as Draco's voice came through loud and clear: " . . . you know how to fix it?"

"Possibly," said the shop owner - Borgin. "I'll need to see it, though. Why don't you bring it into the shop?"

"I can't. It's got to stay put. I just need you to tell me how to do it."

Borgin's tongue came out to lick his lips, then he said, "Well, without _seeing_ it, I must say it will be a very difficult job, perhaps impossible. I couldn't guarantee anything."

"No? Perhaps this will make you more confident." Draco took a step forward that Hermione thought almost menacing, but an inconveniently placed cabinet blocked him from their view and all three of them stepped sideways as one. Unfortunately, all Hermione could see was a suddenly white-faced Borgin. "Tell anyone," Draco continued, "and there _will _be retribution. You know Fenrir Greyback? He's a family friend. He'll be dropping in from time to time to make sure you're giving the problem your full attention."

Borgin drew himself up. "There will be no need for - "

"I'll decide that," Malfoy interrupted. "Well, I'd better be off. And don't forget to keep that one safe. I'll need it."

"Perhaps you'd like to take it now?"

"No, of course I wouldn't, you stupid little man, how would I look carrying that down the street? Just don't sell it."

"Of course not . . . sir." And he bowed deeply to Draco, almost as if he were his father.

"Not a word to anyone, Borgin, and that includes my mother, understand?"

"Naturally, naturally," the shopkeeper said, bowing again. And the next minute the door bell was tinkling and Draco was exiting. He wore the nastiest pleased look that Hermione had ever seen, and passed so near to the three of them, the cloak stirred in the wind of his passing. Inside the shop, Borgin's expression had gone from unctuous to concerned.

"What was that about?" Ron asked as he rolled up his Extendable Ears.

"Dunno," Harry replied. "He wants something mended . . . and he wants to reserve something in there . . . Could either of you see what he pointed at when he said 'that one'?"

"No, he was behind that cabinet - "

"You two stay here," Hermione said. While Harry had been talking, she'd been thinking.

"Where are you - " she heard Harry say behind her but was already out from under the cloak and headed for the door. The bell jingled again, making Borgin jump.

"Hello, horrible morning, isn't it?" Hermione asked, trying once more to affect the lofty tone of Cedric's mother. The shopkeeper just looked at her suspiciously. Hermione prowled around, trying to guess what on earth Draco had been looking at. Something in the way he'd been talking made Hermione think of pairs. What in here might have a pair at Malfoy Manor? Was that why Draco had said it had to stay where it was? Maybe it belonged to his mother? It was clear he hadn't wanted Narcissa Malfoy to know about this.

Her eye fell on a beautiful necklace set with opals in silver. "Is this necklace for sale?" she asked, just to see what Borgin would say.

"If you've got one and a half thousand Galleons," he replied coldly, eyes dropping down her robes, which were clearly middle class. She wished she'd worn the green robes Mrs. Diggory had given her, and struggled to maintain a cool expression, not show her shock at the price.

She dropped her eyes to the glass case again and pointed to a hideous looking skull. "What about this lovely - um - skull?"

"Sixteen Galleons."

All right, so that wasn't what Draco had reserved either. The plain fact was she had no idea what Draco had been interested in, except that apparently it was in this area of the shop, close enough that he could point to it. Borgin watched her with hostile suspicion; it was clear he knew she was up to something, not a casual shopper and she wished for Cedric. He was better at this sort of thing; yet he was too well known now to act covertly. "All right," she blurted, "the thing is, that - er - boy who was in here just now, Draco Malfoy, well, he's a friend of mine and I want to get him a birthday present, but if he was picking out something, I obviously don't want to get him the _same _thing, so . . . um . . . "

Borgin wasn't buying it at all. "Out!" he snapped. "Get out!" And his face was so angry that Hermione felt her stomach leap straight into her throat. She turned for the door, hurrying out before he could hex her. Trouble was, she had no idea where the boys were.

A "pssst!" came from her left and she darted that way even as Ron tossed the cloak over her. "Ah well," he said, "Worth a try, but you _were_ a bit obvious - "

Feeling more than a little humiliated, she snapped back, "Next time you can show me how it's done, O Master of Mystery!"

"Let's get back to Fred and George's," Harry cut in, "before everybody realizes we aren't there."

* * *

><p>"You did <em>what<em>?"

"Shh, it wasn't that dangerous, Cedric!"

Furious, Cedric turned to Harry and Ron. "You let her do that?"

"What?" Ron asked, defensive. "She was out from under the cloak before we could stop her."

"I am not a little girl, Cedric Diggory!" Hermione actually stamped her foot. She was as angry as he was. "Stop patronizing me!"

"I'm not!" he snapped back. "I'm just worried! You went marching - bold as you please! - into one of the oldest, best-known Dark Arts shops in Knockturn Alley! A Muggle-born, and as far as Borgin knew, not another soul around to witness if he murdered you and stuffed your body in a cabinet." Cedric's voice cracked and he had to stop, overwhelmed by the sheer depth of the danger she'd been in.

"He didn't know I was Muggle-born," she said, reasonably. "And we were in danger at the Ministry last year, too."

"Yes, you were! And that was just as foolish!"

"It's a war!" she shouted back. "It's a war, Cedric! It's dangerous! That's what war is!"

"That doesn't mean you have to take stupid chances, Granger!"

"You're not my watchdog!" she replied, then pointed to Ron and Harry. "And neither are they! Just because I'm a girl - "

"It's not because you're a girl! It's because it was a dumb thing to do! I'd be yelling if you'd let Harry do the same thing!"

"Well, what would you suggest, Mr. Know-it-All? We needed to find out what Draco was interested in."

Without an answer to that, he grunted in frustration and ran his hand into his hair where he sat on the couch in the small living room of the flat that he, Bill and Fleur had found that very Monday. They had not, in fact, fully moved in yet although they were sleeping there and moving boxes of books and personal effects. Right now, Bill and Fleur were out, but Harry occupied the chair, while Hermione and Ron were both standing. The three of them had been allowed to come and visit despite the fact it was in Muggle London - or perhaps because it was in Muggle London. The fireplace had just been connected to the Floo Network that morning, and they'd arrived by Floo. Hermione and Harry were there to help Cedric plug in the telephone and set up the TV. Bill was out getting more boxes, while Fleur was trying to find casserole dishes that could be put into the microwave, using her French nationality and the language barrier as an excuse if she asked a foolish question. Cedric had been left in charge of meeting the landlady when she came with the lease. He still couldn't believe they'd found a flat that let them escape direct taxation, was on the ground floor, _and_ permitted pets - even if he'd Transfigured Esiban into a cat for the landlady's inspection earlier. Esiban hadn't forgiven him yet, and was sulking in a corner of his bedroom cupboard.

Now, Harry broke the momentary silence by saying, "Malfoy's father's in Azkaban. I think he's after revenge." It wasn't an answer to Hermione's question, but Cedric thought he was trying to play peacemaker by changing the subject.

Ron glanced over at him. "Revenge? But what could Malfoy do about his dad in Azkaban?"

"That's my point - I don't know!" Harry replied, clearly frustrated. In fact, they'd wound up in a quarrel about Hermione's bad spying because Harry had wanted to discuss Malfoy's behaviour. "He's up to something, and I think we should take it seriously. His father's a Death Eater and - "

Abruptly, Harry stopped, causing Cedric to look over at him. The younger boy had the most peculiar expression on his face, as if somebody had dumped a glass of icy water over his head. "Your scar's not hurting again, is it?" Hermione asked, moving towards him.

"He's a Death Eater," Harry muttered softly. "He's replaced his father as a Death Eater."

For four heartbeats, complete silence reigned. Cedric felt gobsmacked by the obvious, Hermione looked dubious, and Ron erupted in laughter - "_Malfoy? _He's sixteen, Harry! You think You-Know-Who would let Malfoy join?"

"It does seem unlikely," Hermione said. "What makes you think - "

"In Madam Malkin's - she didn't touch him but he yelled and jerked his arm away from her when she went to roll up his sleeve. It was his _left arm_. He's been branded with the Dark Mark."

Ron and Hermione were exchanging a dubious glance but Cedric remembered exactly what Harry was talking about and nodded to the younger boy. "I think he just wanted to get out of there," Hermione said - which Cedric had to admit was also true enough - but . . .

"He showed Borgin something we couldn't see," Harry protested. "In the shop, he showed Borgin something that seriously scared him. It was the mark, I know it. He was showing Borgin who he was dealing with. You saw how seriously Borgin took him after that!"

"I still don't reckon You-Know-Who would let Malfoy join - "

"He let Regulus Black join," Cedric pointed out.

"He was over seventeen!" Ron protested. "Of age!"

"You assume. We don't actually know when Regulus did join."

Harry was nodding enthusiastically. "See - Ced thinks I'm right."

"Well - " Cedric began because he wasn't sure Harry was _right_, but he also wasn't sure he wasn't.

Ron's face, however, had turned scarlet and he stalked out of the room for the bathroom. "Oh, yeah, of _course_, if Cedric says so!"

Embarrassed, Cedric looked at his hands and Hermione sighed, glaring at Harry. "What?" Harry asked. "He's making it into some sort of competition!"

Before any of them could reply, the locks snapped over (all together) on the door - the result of magic, not a key - and Bill burst in. He was waving a paper**:** _The Evening Prophet_. "Look," he said, his face white. "You Know Who is on the move again. An entire family of Muggles was found massacred in London."

"Shit," Cedric muttered, holding out a hand for the paper. "Let me see that. The Minister's going to be angry that I didn't catch it - "

"No worries, mate," Bill replied, handing over the paper even as Ron came back out of the loo, face worried. "Aurors spotted the Dark Mark over the house before it ever reached Muggle authorities. You didn't miss anything."

Cedric didn't reply, just snapped the paper open to read the headlines, Hermione settling beside him on one side and Harry on the other. 

**Cole Family Murdered to the Last Member!**

_For unknown reasons, the Muggle Cole family of Shepherd's Bush, London, was found murdered to the last member, including a four-month-old infant. A Dark Mark appeared in the sky above the home a little after midnight, whereupon Aurors rushed to the scene of the crime . . ._

"I wonder," Harry said, "how Voldemort knows the Coles? Sounds like he had a _grudge_."

"I'd say so," Bill replied, face troubled.

* * *

><br>**Notes:** As in some chapters of _Finding Himself_, significant portions of the dialogue in the latter half of this chapter is lifted directly from the books, with some (obvious) modifications. But if it sounds familiar, it probably is. (G)


	7. Separation

Cedric's first intravenous immunoglobulin therapy occurred the week before Hermione was to return to Hogwarts, so she could go with him and hold his hand through the foreign-to-him Muggle procedure. Nobody put it that way, but that was the reason. She knew he was very nervous about the whole thing. His mother insisted on coming as well, although Cedric didn't want her to. Once he'd learned the outcome of his medical tests, he and Hermione had sat down with his parents to explain what he'd be doing. Neither of the Diggorys had seemed enthused, but they also hadn't refused, and Lucy Diggory had arranged a private appointment with Aunt Brenda at her surgery. "Tough broad," Aunt Brenda had said of her later, according to Hermione's mother.

That was, Hermione supposed, putting it politely.

Hermione didn't know what the paperwork logistics had been (or what mountains moved), but Aunt Brenda had Cedric come to her surgery on the last Monday morning in August. He'd be coming in every day that week, in fact. Apparently, the Ministry had been reluctant to give him such a lot of time out of the office, but the fact he could take his work with him helped. So he showed up with his usual collection of newspapers, tabloids, and laptop. The procedure would take a total of five hours, providing he had no adverse reactions, so things could get rather dull without distraction. Hermione had her new textbooks, and Mrs. Diggory her sketchbook. Whatever Cedric's protests, at least on this first day, neither of them planned to be anywhere else.

Aunt Brenda led them into the room where the IV would be administered. More sophisticated than the usual exam room, it contained a longer examination table and some other equipment. She and Hermione helped him up onto the bed, then she took his vitals and had him lie down as a nurse arrived with the IV bags and pole. He eyed it all dubiously, and swallowed. Hermione came over to hold his hand whilst his mother just watched from a corner. His legs were too long even for a longer table and dangled.

"Most patients tolerate IVIg very well," Aunt Brenda said, "and we're starting you on a slow dose until we determine your tolerance. We'll raise it gradually as the week progresses. In someone of your size and general health, I'm not anticipating any trouble, but surprises happen, so if you experience fever, chills, rigors, flushing, sweating, hives, or shortness of breath, give a shout immediately. It's usually not serious and all we'll need to do is slow down the infusion." She patted his leg and grinned. "Mostly, you'll just be bored to tears and stuck here where my staff can be all atwitter over you. They drew straws for who got to assist me today."

Cedric blushed - as did the young nurse readying the IV - and Hermione felt a swell of pride she recognized as shallow but couldn't help. Cedric was eying the IV the nurse had handed Aunt Brenda. "Relax, Cedric," Aunt Brenda said. "You'll scarcely feel it. We'll put it in your left arm today - so it's not your mouse hand." She winked at him and nodded to the laptop he'd left on a seat, as she tied a rubber tourniquet just below his elbow, then turned his arm over and tapped veins above his wrist, looking for a good one. He watched half in fascination, half in fear.

"Ooo, such nice big veins you have, Mr. Diggory. I like you." Chuckling, she angled the needle - "Hold very still" - and slid it in smoothly. Cedric winced, but made no noise. "See? Not bad at all. Now let's be sure we've got out all the air . . . and we're good to go!" She curled the tube and taped it down neatly, then released the tourniquet whilst her nurse raised the bag to hang on the pole loop, adjusting the drip speed after consulting something written on a clipboard. "Tomorrow, I'll set you up again, but after that, Kirsten can manage." To the nurse, she said, "Thanks, love, you can go."

When the nurse had left, Aunt Brenda propped herself on the bed edge. "I'm being extra-cautious today since this is all so unfamiliar to you," she said. "But after a while, it'll seem routine, and once we're past these initial three months, we'll cut it back to one week every eight weeks. We want to do a more concentrated therapy here at the beginning, to maximize the effects, then it'll just be a matter of maintaining it.

"I want you to stay put for half an hour - complications tend to surface in that time if they're going to - then you're free to sit up and move around if you like, even go to the loo if you need to, although use your chair to get there because you'll need to roll the IV pole too and that'd be difficult with crutches." She pointed to a red button attached to a cord. "There's the emergency buzzer if you need help." As she'd been speaking, she'd been watching Cedric's face carefully, but seemed reassured when nothing untoward happened in the first few minutes. Rising again, she said, "I'll check in on you again in half an hour," before heading for the door. "Until then, doze a bit."

And that was all there was to it. The three of them spent the next four hours going about their separate business, and when the IV had run out, Aunt Brenda removed the needle . . . and that was that. A bit anti-climactic, Hermione thought, even whilst being relieved it had been. As Cedric moved himself from the bed into his chair, he asked, "You said I might see results - ?"

"You _could_" - Aunt Brenda stressed it - "see results in the first 24 to 48 hours. Some patients do. Some take a week or more . . . and anything in between. It's just impossible to say. Give yourself plenty of time."

They were all on tenterhooks that night, but again, nothing happened - for good or ill. Cedric had gone back to the Grangers, both because it was in London and because they were more likely to know what to do if Cedric suffered side effects. His mother stayed the night, and the next day went the same, all three of them at Brenda's surgery. He talked his mother out of going with him on Wednesday but Hermione persisted. "This is our last week together."

"And I have to spend it in hospital. Well, not exactly _hospital_ but - "

"I don't care," she said, leaning over to grip his hand with the IV - back in the left today. They were alternating. "If this helps you - "

"I'm not seeing any change yet."

"Today is just 48 hours, Cedric."

That evening, Mrs. Diggory decided to go back to Ottery-St.-Catchpole as Cedric was tolerating the medication well, but she remained through dinner. They spent it discussing the impending collapse of the Conservative party under John Major. Unfortunately, Major's tenure in office had been beset by everything from the Gulf War to Black Wednesday to IRA struggles to such gaffes as not checking to see if a microphone was live during the European Union discussions, thus broadcasting an unflattering comment. "Honest John," Hermione's father said, "but that won't hold his party together. They'll be lucky to make it to the end of the year."

Cedric shared a glance with his mother, who said, "Disarray in the Muggle government will benefit He Who Must Not Be Named."

"I'll see if I can get a list of new offices being filled," Cedric said.

"He won't be interested in just any position," his mother warned.

"No, probably not."

Hermione's parents were exchanging worried looks. "You think he might try to infiltrate our government?" her father asked. "But I thought he didn't like Muggles?"

"He doesn't," Mrs. Diggory replied. "In fact, he regards you as dangerous, which is precisely why he wants to control your government - covertly, of course, for now."

"Control it?" Hermione's father said. "Lucy, I don't think he could - "

"Do not underestimate him. Be glad that, at the moment, his chief interest lies with our world. Also, I understand the Ministry has made some arrangements to protect the highest levels of your government, but our resources are limited and there is lesser mischief he could make. Perhaps the best you could do is keep an eye on your minor public officials. You know them better than we do. If one begins to act out of sorts, alert Cedric, who in turn can alert the Minister."

Hermione's parents looked from Mrs. Diggory to Cedric, and Hermione tried not to panic at their obvious alarm. "What, er - what sorts of things might this Voldemort want to control?" her mother asked.

"Anything that would permit him to operate unopposed, so I would expect your law enforcement to be his chief interest, although the Ministry knows that as well and is keeping an eye on it. But something as minor as controlling your transportation could aid him. If your police can't get to a crime scene, they can't stop it."

Hermione's father raised his eyebrows and speared some of the new potatoes and goat cheese. "He's no fool, is he?"

"No. Arrogant, yes. A fool, hardly." She pushed back the sleeve of her robe so she could reach her water glass, and Hermione was struck by how very _peculiar_ this was. Cedric and his mother sat in their wizarding robes at her parents' very Muggle dinner table, eating a vegetarian meal and discussing Voldemort's possible plans after Cedric had returned from a Muggle medical treatment for a wizarding curse. And if it were all on a small and personal scale, it was, she realized, _what could be _- and what Voldemort feared most**:** his idea of miscegenation.

"By the way, Cedric," her father was saying. "Bill rang us up today to see how the treatments were going. You need to tell him he doesn't need to shout into the mouthpiece. It's not two tins on a string." Her father was smirking, and Cedric grinned as he buttered a roll. "Anyway, apparently they're having some trouble with the television, so I told him we'd stop by tomorrow and check the connections. I expect they've just upset the aerial, but I'm not certain."

"I'm afraid we're going to be a bit of an albatross for you, learning everything," Cedric warned.

Hermione's father waved a fork and swallowed before replying, "No trouble at all." His smile turned wicked. "At least this way, Arthur can pester Bill with his questions about drills instead of me."

Everybody laughed at that, even Mrs. Diggory, and perhaps thinking the meal was breaking up, Chilli, her parents' beagle, trotted over to the table and propped her front feet on the edge of Cedric's seat. He was usually the most soft-hearted and inclined to let her lick his plate clean even before the time came to load the dishwasher. Startled by the cold nose suddenly nudging his arm, Cedric dropped his fork, which immediately clattered to the floor. Still laughing, he bent without thinking to retrieve it before Chilli got it -

And everyone at the table froze.

He didn't fall out of his chair. In fact, he was able to lift himself up with only a hand on the table edge to steady him. The fork was forgotten. In the silence, everyone could hear Chilli licking it. "Cedric," his mother said, and her voice cracked. Hermione had never heard her sound like that.

Cedric let go of the table and leaned just a little sideways - and didn't fall. "Merlin's beard!" he breathed.

Then they were all talking at once, Hermione and her father both out of their seats at his side, his mother gripping his arm and Hermione's mother half standing to lean over the table. "I didn't fall!" Cedric was saying, over and over. He might have reached for the fork without thinking but just a few days ago, in a chair without arms, such a mistake would have toppled him onto the floor, being unable to fully control his hip and thigh muscles.

The rest of dinner and pudding were forgotten. Everyone retired to the living room where Hermione's father ran a brief series of tests to determine what changes they were seeing, everyone else looking on anxiously. It didn't amount to much, but any improvement was nothing short of miraculous. Hermione had never seen Lucy Diggory so much as mist up until that evening. Her own mother had slipped an arm around Mrs. Diggory's shoulders, squeezing. Smile a bit watery, Mrs. Diggory glanced over at her and nodded.

The next morning, Aunt Brenda confirmed what Hermione's father had determined the night before. There had been some improvement to the nerves above the second lumbar vertebra, those that had suffered only collateral damage from the curse, not been the focus of it. "We may see some gradual change now from your upper thighs down," she told him, "but it'll depend on the degree to which your regeneration potion can heal what's already been damaged. At least it seems the treatments have halted damage so the potion can work better."

That evening after dinner in the Granger's car on the way to Bill, Fleur and Cedric's flat, Cedric said to her father, "I'm sorry I was so doubtful of these treatments earlier."

Not taking his eyes from the London traffic, her father replied, "Perfectly understandable, Cedric. When you think you've tried everything and someone offers the unlikely, you don't expect it to work."

Her father had met Bill before, but not Fleur - and his reaction was pretty much the same as any other male Hermione had ever seen**: **mildly stunned and slightly uncomfortable. Sighing, she was glad her mother wasn't there. "What is she?" her father asked her softly as he fixed the aerial (which had, indeed, been knocked awry). "I mean is that girl giving off _pheromones_?"

"She's a quarter Veela," Hermione replied equally softly. "Veela are non-human sentient beings, like house-elves or the goblins in Gringotts." Her parents had been rather taken aback by the goblins at first. "And yes, I think it's pheromones that she emits. I suppose" - she wrinkled her nose, not really liking to say something nice about Fleur - "I suppose it's a defence mechanism. I've noticed it seems to strike boys around her strongest when they first meet her, or when she's, er, trying to make people like her, or when she's worried or grateful. I think she's grateful you came over to help. Cedric insists that, well, you get used to it."

"So female Veela affect men and male Veela affect women?"

Hermione blushed. "I'm not sure there _are_ any _male_ Veela, dad."

He turned his head to look at her in shock. "What? They reproduce like polyps by budding?"

Hermione burst out laughing and the other three - who were in the kitchen - glanced over at her. "Nothing!" she called and waited until they'd gone back to unpacking, Cedric seated and digging through the boxes, handing things to Bill and Fleur who put them away. "I have no idea how they reproduce," she said. She'd never looked it up. "All I know is that Fleur's grandmother is a Veela who married a human. I don't think . . . I'm not certain they're mortal, so maybe they don't need to reproduce normally. I don't really know Fleur well enough to ask."

"If we could isolate whatever it is she's giving off, we could bottle it and kill no more tigers in the Far East. Instant aphrodisiac."

Face on fire, Hermione made a little shocked sound. "Dad!" She didn't want to think about her father _that_ way . . . but she was smiling too. Odd, how it was her mother to whom she talked about sex - awkwardly - but her father with whom she laughed about it. Negotiating the shift from parent and child to parent and adult child wasn't easy. She wondered if her father was as uncomfortable knowing she slept with Cedric as she was hearing him joke about aphrodisiacs.

When he headed home for the night half an hour later, she remained behind, her trunk and all her school things in Cedric's bedroom. She'd be staying here until Sunday when she'd board the Hogwarts Express to return to school - just three more nights. Tomorrow, she'd show Cedric how to reach Aunt Brenda's surgery by Muggle means instead of by Apparition should he need to do so, but mostly, they'd wanted to hoard these last days together like misers for time. She'd see her parents once more on Saturday evening for dinner, but they'd be returning here again and Cedric would take her to the train station the next morning.

The time passed too quickly, although little of actual import happened beyond a letter for Cedric that arrived on Friday. It was the long-awaited notification from the Transfiguration College:

_Dear Mr. Diggory,_

_Although I greatly enjoyed our afternoon together at Hogwarts last spring, it is with some regret that I must inform you that the college has selected its four entry students for the coming year and all four have accepted. That said, I would note that your name is on the short waiting list, should one of those four change his or her mind between now and 1st October. And if they do not, I hope you will consider reapplying to the college at some point in the future when you have had further real-world experience; you showed remarkable promise for such a young man. I might also point out that, if you have any inclination for travel (as Professor McGonagall might have hinted at in our conversations about you), there are specialist colleges on the continent where the population of wizardkind is greater, and if language is an issue, the countries of Australia, Canada and the United States all have large enough pools of young wizards to create fully-fledged colleges and institutions much like our Muggle counterparts, all able to admit far more students than we. I have little doubt that your application there would be welcomed. In fact, in the current, dark atmosphere, it might be in the best interests of a young wizard's safety to consider such options._

_With sincere best wishes,_  
><em>Paolo S. Sweeney, Tutorial Fellow<em>  
><em>Praefectus, College of Transfiguration<em>  
><em>West Wing, Holywell Under<em>  
><em>Manor Road, Oxford<em>

Hermione read it over Cedric's shoulder and when finished, they both sighed. That letter wasn't unexpected. The further into August time had slipped before hearing anything from the college, the less likely it had become that Cedric would be offered a place. "Still," Hermione pointed out, trying for the silver lining, "you must be fairly high on their list of reserves. They obviously waited to get acceptances back from the people they did admit before writing to you."

Cedric shrugged and refolded the parchment, slipping it back into the envelope. "This wasn't the career path I wanted ultimately anyway, so I shouldn't let it bother me. Those openings should go to applicants who really hoped for them."

"I know," she said, squeezing his shoulder, but suspected being rejected still hurt, even if he hadn't expected to make the cut, nor really wanted the slot in the first place. Cedric wasn't used to failing any more than she was. He was trying to be graceful about it but not quite succeeding, his face glum.

"I wonder," he said after a moment, "if Sweeney's been adding that last bit to all the letters - about going overseas because it's safer - or just to mine? It sounded like it was aimed at me."

She filled Crookshank's food bowl and set it atop the refrigerator as the cat came bounding into the kitchen, up to the counter, then onto the refrigerator after it. He'd learned that if he didn't eat quickly, Esiban would finish it for him. Mostly, the racoon stayed off the counters, but had no trouble getting up there if food were involved. To keep him from harassing Crookshanks - and to give herself time to think - Hermione filled Esiban's food bowl as well, one on the floor. She did think Sweeney had aimed his remarks at Cedric, but knew Cedric was inclined to take it as a slight concerning his ability to protect himself, not as a general suggestion quite apart from his handicap. Cedric could be touchy. After their quarrel at his house earlier that summer, she'd been more careful about how she put things. "I think he thinks you exceptionally capable - which is more or less what he said. He just doesn't have room for you, so he's suggesting you look elsewhere."

"What about that last bit - 'in the best interests of a young wizard's safety'?"

"Well, it would be, you have to admit." She raised up, watching him from the corner of her eye. His face was set. "I suspect he'd say as much to anybody, Cedric. Most of the adults worry about students and younger wizards getting involved in this war. You've heard how Mrs. Weasley goes on about Ron, Harry, me, Ginny, and the twins having anything to do with Order business - even Bill, for that matter. And he was a Curse Breaker in Egypt!"

Cedric brows lifted and he tilted his head in a gesture she recognized as conceding the point. She breathed out softly; potential crisis averted, but she wondered if he were going to start looking for snubs where none had been intended? Then again, and in his shoes, she wasn't certain she'd be any different.

On their last night together, their love making was a bit frantic. She didn't normally think of them as so hung up on the physical, but even after she was gone, they could write, or talk by Floo. _Touching_ they'd miss, and they barely slept that last night. Sleep wasted time. "I'll sleep on the train," she said, and he'd have the whole rest of the day to catch up after dropping her off. So they made love, talked, ate a midnight snack, talked, made love again, and finally dozed until the alarm buzzed for her to take a shower and get ready to leave for King's Cross. She told herself that she was going to be dignified about it all, not cry.

The station was packed with people, even on a Sunday, although not being a work day, people were less in a rush and nicer to Cedric as he manoeuvred through in his chair, Crookshanks in a carrier on his lap. Hermione tugged a trolley behind with her trunk. On the other side of the barrier on platform 9¾, students hurried to and fro under dimmer gas lights. A few, especially from Hufflepuff, grinned at Cedric as they passed, or patted his shoulder. Ernie MacMillan - already on the train - disembarked to come and say hello. Hermione smiled politely, but was glad when he turned his attention to Cedric; she'd always found him a bit overbearing. "Come to see off Hermione, I reckon?" he asked, shaking Cedric's hand.

"That's right."

"Do you know who's Head Boy this year?" Ernie asked.

"Haven't got a clue," Cedric replied. "At a guess, I'd say it'll be Eddie Carmichael."

"Not Cormac McLaggen? His mum's dad knows Dumbledore pretty well, doesn't he? Tiberius Ogden?"

"Merlin witness, it won't be McLaggen unless somebody Confounded Dumbledore!"

Hermione had mostly tuned them out, waiting for Ernie to go away so she could have Cedric to herself again, but Ernie's next comment got her attention. "Well, it may not be Carmichael because I heard who's Head Girl, and she's from Ravenclaw." Hermione glanced around in time to catch Ernie waggle his eyebrows - which just looked ridiculous. "Cho Chang."

"What?" Hermione nearly screeched. He had to be kidding. He had to be.

"Yep," Ernie replied. "It's Cho. I saw her wearing the badge earlier."

"But she . . . she supported Marietta! Who betrayed Dumbledore!"

"Granger," Cedric began, "Cho supported her _friend_ - which some would count a virtue, you know - and _she_ didn't betray Dumbledore. Marietta made a mistake - "

"Don't start that again," Hermione snapped. Ernie was watching them with interest and Hermione closed her mouth, refusing to give him gossip fodder. "I was just . . . surprised. Cho would be capable enough, I suppose, and she _is_ popular." She tried not to be too snide about it.

Smirking, Cedric just shook his head. "Ernie, tell Cho I said congratulations, will you? And now go away so I can tell my girlfriend good-bye, eh?"

Laughing, Ernie clapped him on the shoulder. "Good to see you, Ced." He headed back onto the train. There were Hufflepuffs hanging out the windows to shout to Cedric, waving. Hannah was among them. She blew him a kiss, then ducked back into her compartment.

Hermione resisted rolling her eyes, but it warmed her to see. "You're still their darling, darling."

He chuckled as she removed Crookshanks' carrier. The cat hated the thing, but it was necessary in the station. He patted his lap, and she settled into it, although a bit reluctantly. "Isn't this a bit of a show?"

"That's the point," he said, kissing her nose - which brought hoots and whistles from the train. "I don't want anybody thinking we're not still together and giving me competition, you know."

Lifting her chin and slipping arms around his neck, she said with mock seriousness that wasn't mocking at its core, "You have no competition and you know it, Mr. Diggory."

His grin turned sly. "Good to hear, Miss Granger. Now, you'd best go. This isn't going to get any easier, I fear."

"No," she whispered, and her earlier resolve broke. She could feel her eyes grow wet. "Just - " She tried to smile but feared it was watery. "God, we're terribly clichéd. And everybody on the train is watching us. Well, not everybody but - "

He kissed her lips this time instead of her nose, if briefly. "Let them watch and envy me."

She laid her head on his shoulder, just for a moment. She could hear Crookshanks scratching inside his carrier and meowing, the calls of parents and children, and the five-minute warning whistle of the train. And if they did still have five minutes, dragging this out wouldn't make it any easier, as he'd said. So she let him go and climbed off his lap, bending to kiss him one last time, a real kiss. "I love you," she said, collecting Crookshanks' carrier and grabbing her trunk handle to drag it after her. She didn't look back until she was on the train steps, then turned to wave to him sitting there - and pretended she could see despite the fact she was crying like a silly girl at a sad movie.

"I'm such a sop," she muttered, turning and wiping her eyes. But this wasn't just a sad movie. She was leaving her best friend for months apart, and if she still had Harry and Ron, they were best mates to each other first. With Cedric, _she_ came first. So what if it was a cliché? She'd miss him horribly, and that was just the plain truth.

* * *

><p>Without Hermione, Cedric's life stuttered to a crawl. He hadn't realized how much he'd built his daily routine around her until she wasn't there.<p>

The first week he spent moping around the flat with the excuse of unpacking things. But little remained for him to unpack, and he discovered there was only so much time he could spend watching Muggle comedies trying to understand their culture enough to unravel the humour. He wrote long letters at night, which he sent by Ministry owl like clockwork every morning until two weeks into September when he was 'informed' by memo that Ministry owls weren't for personal mail delivery. He hadn't meant to take advantage; he just hadn't thought about it. He, Bill and Fleur didn't have an owl. It'd be conspicuous, and Esiban didn't get on well with owls. So Cedric had to visit the Diagon Alley Owl Post every day at lunchtime.

Apparently, Hermione was having similar difficulty with the school owls. "_I try to rotate which one I use,_" she wrote, "_but it seems when I get up there anymore, they all fly to the other side of the Owlery to get away from me._"

They agreed to slow down the letter exchange to every other day, but he still felt as if he lived owl-to-owl, anxiously awaiting Hermione's account of the goings-on at Hogwarts. Snape was teaching Defence Against the Dark Arts, so naturally, Harry had already earned a detention. In Snape's old job was a new Potions professor, or rather an old professor back again - Slughorn, who'd taught Cedric's mum. Harry had an illicit Potions textbook, too - "_It really worries me, Cedric, how he just accepts whatever it tells him!_" - and the Gryffindor Quidditch tryouts had been swamped by Harry fans. At least Ron was back as Keeper. She also mentioned Harry's special lessons with Dumbledore, and that Hagrid's friend, the giant spider Aragog was dying. Worried, Cedric wrote back, "_Stay out of the forest then. Without the old one there, his offspring may get out of hand; Hagrid will have to eradicate that nest, whether he likes it or not." _He could still scarcely believe Dumbledore had allowed Hagrid to leave a nest of Acromantulae in the forest in the first place, "forbidden" or not. He may as well have let a dragon live in there.

Occasionally, he got letters from Harry, including an indignant one that began, "_What idiot at the Ministry decided Stan Shunpike is a Death Eater? I don't care what he said when pissed in a pub, he's no more a Death Eater than I am. He was just boasting, probably trying to pull a girl. Hermione says the Ministry wants to look like they're doing something, but going around arresting innocent people isn't fair - and it's not doing anything, either, except wasting time._"

Cedric sighed, and wrote back, "_No, it's not fair, but this isn't a good time to be making jokes or claiming dangerous allegiances even if you're on the pull. There are other ways of looking at it, Harry. First, if he was claiming to be a Death Eater to impress somebody, would he join them if invited, or otherwise help them? His claims imply he thinks they're 'cool'. Second, he may be safer in Azkaban, at the moment. V. doesn't take well to being used for empty posturing. I don't approve of what happened, no, but it's not as clear-cut as you're suggesting._"

By contrast, Cedric's own life was a dull routine of work, reading, and news watching (often futilely), dinner once a week with the Grangers, and once or twice a week with his own parents. Nothing seemed to change. Even improvement from his treatments had stalled after that first brief advance. Dr. Guest had said he shouldn't expect too much too soon, but it seemed axiomatic of his life now. He lived on permanent hold.

"You are love sick," Fleur said to him one evening as they worked on dinner together. (Bill never cooked.) "All pale and sad. You need to go out, Cederic."

"Someday, you're going to learn to say my name right," he muttered to change the subject.

"Oh, I can. But Saed-ric is not so pretty as Sae-der-ric. _That_ has music in it."

"Fine, Flay-er."

Laughing, she smacked him with her wooden spoon.

At the end of the fourth week after Hermione's departure - a Friday - he found himself kidnapped on his way home from the Ministry. "Happy birthday!" Tonks said as she slammed a pillowcase down over his head.

"Hey!" he protested as he felt someone fetch his chair out of his pocket, then enlarge and guide him down into it. "What are you doing?"

"Taking you out for your birthday," said Scott's voice. "Or did you forget what today is?"

He hadn't exactly, but it hadn't registered and probably wouldn't have until an owl arrived from Hermione about it. Living owl-to-owl again.

Wherever they took him required Apparating, and even before they removed the pillowcase, the noise told him it was probably a pub. And indeed it was - the Leaky Cauldron with the usual lunch crowd, which meant the twins, Bill, Fleur, and Lee Jordan beside Scott and Tonks. Yet Ed and Peter had travelled long distance for the occasion, and Angelina and Alicia were there, too, along with Roger Davies and Violet Sykes, whom he hadn't realized lived in London. It felt like a school reunion, and for a little while, Cedric came unfrozen, remembering how to laugh at something outside a letter.

As they were leaving, Tonks, Cedric, and his former denmates ran into Dumbledore. Not expecting to meet the Headmaster of Hogwarts in Diagon Alley during termtime, they all gaped. He gave them a friendly smile. "I don't suppose I could have a word with all of you gentlemen? Perhaps at Cedric's place?"

"Er, certainly," Cedric said, glancing at the other three, who nodded dumbly. "It might be a bit, well, cramped - "

"Not a problem," Dumbledore said, smile still in place. "We shan't be terribly long, I suspect."

The six of them Apparated back to Cedric's flat. Life in a Muggle neighbourhood meant they couldn't appear suddenly on the pavement outside, so they used the back garden, and to hide the pop, Bill had Muffled a spot behind an old, white trellis. Now they all trooped through Bill's complex wards to the back door that opened straight into the kitchen. Even if Bill didn't cook, Cedric was more than willing to trade cooking duties in order to share a flat protected by a Curse Breaker.

Despite the late hour, Cedric put on a kettle, then led them down the hallway, through the foyer and into the living room. Bill and Fleur were already back home and both came out to see what the fuss was about. "Professor!" Bill said as Fleur began rushing around the living room with her wand, trying to pick up the non-existent mess.

Dumbledore reached out to stop her with a kindly smile. "Please, my dear, don't trouble yourself." Cedric sucked in breath when he caught sight of Dumbledore's hand. It was blackened and shrivelled, as if subjected to a terrible poison or strong curse.

"Professor!" he said.

Dumbledore covered the hand again with the sleeve of his robe, and shook his head. "It's nothing to worry about, Cedric."

He conjured an extra seat for himself, then one for Ed and Peter too as the furniture in the living room wasn't sufficient for the eight of them, even with Cedric in his own chair. Fleur and Bill sat together on the couch with Tonks, and Scott took the matching chair. Even so, it was cramped around the coffee table and Cedric could feel the temperature of the room rise simply from the number of people, never mind anxiety. Dumbledore had turned so that he faced Cedric's denmates. "Mr. Summers, Mr. Carpenter, Mr. Adamson - Scott, Ed and Peter, if I may?" All of them nodded. They weren't students anymore and it was polite to offer them the first-name equity of adulthood. "You have a very strong advocate in your former roommate" - he gestured to Cedric - "who has asked that I consider all three of you for a special group, the Order of the Phoenix. But be clear that I wish only for you to listen tonight, then sleep on it. I'll contact you individually tomorrow to hear your answers. While it may be advantageous to explain the Order to all of you at once, I recognize that can also create undue pressure. So at the outset, I'm telling you I don't want a yea or nay from anyone now. Are we clear?"

All three of them nodded, exchanging glances among themselves and shooting Cedric quizzical looks. Scott also glanced Tonks's way, but she didn't look back at him, just kept her attention on Dumbledore. Cedric suspected that she, like he, had lobbied for Scott's inclusion, even if she couldn't speak for Ed or Peter.

"Very well then," Dumbledore said. "The Order of the Phoenix was formed during the last war against Voldemort - a group dedicated to bringing about his downfall. While we were hardly unique in our desire, Voldemort is skilled at infiltration and the loyalties of those in organizations like the Aurors was uncertain. Neighbour doubted neighbour; brother doubted brother. The Order attempted to ensure that none of our members were double agents, but as you know, we weren't entirely successful. The Potters were murdered as a result of treachery. Yet Peter Pettigrew aside, our members were staunch in their opposition - sometimes to their own demise. Order membership wasn't just about declaring loyalties, you see. It also involved special missions designed to thwart Voldemort's plans."

"Like the French Underground," Scott said. As soon as Dumbledore had mentioned a secret order to fight Voldemort, Scott had been on the edge of his seat and Cedric knew how he'd answer tomorrow. They wouldn't be able to keep him out.

"Precisely," Dumbledore replied. "And to underscore what I mean by danger, let me point out that of the original Order, less than half survived the first war." That brought a moment of silence, even from Scott. In the kitchen, the kettle whistled and Fleur rose to go and make tea.

"When Voldemort returned last year," Dumbledore continued, "we immediately resurrected the Order - even before he publicly revealed his return. That gave us something of an advantage this time around, but there have still been losses."

"Sirius Black," Scott said, glancing over at Tonks as if he'd just put two-and-two together. "It wasn't just people who knew Harry who came to bail him out at the Ministry last June. You were all members of this Order." He was still eying Tonks, who looked back at him calmly.

"Indeed," Dumbledore said. "In fact, part of why I'm offering you a chance to join the Order now is because of your collective bravery that evening - yes, Ed, yours too, for although you weren't present in London, your actions were essential to alerting us about what was occurring. But if all three of you are no longer students, please be aware that this isn't a choice to make lightly. As I just pointed out, of the original Order, less than half survived, and should you choose not to become directly involved - simply continue to resist Voldemort as you have been - no one will think less of you. What we do is highly dangerous. In fact, if you decide not to join, I will ask that you permit me to Obliviate knowledge of the Order from your minds - as much for your own safety as for ours. Even knowing about the Order, regardless of whether you join it, could result in grave danger to you."

Peter and Ed nodded obediently, whilst Scott just grinned. "You won't be needing to Obliviate me."

Dumbledore held up his good hand. "Hold your decision, Mr. Summers."

"I'm an Auror - well, going to be." Scott blushed. "Danger sort of goes with the job. And I want to fight him."

"You just like an adventure," Tonks retorted.

"That too," Scott replied unashamed, then he sobered. "I was there in London, sir. I saw what they can do, and I saw Sirius Black die. I understand that's possible - well, as much as anybody can understand. But more people'll die if we don't take a stand, won't they? So yeah, I was committed to this Order, me, even before I knew it existed. You can come back and ask me tomorrow, but I won't have changed my mind. Ced's in, Tonks is in - I'm in." He glanced at Ed and Peter as if encouraging them to agree.

Ed was nodding, if not as enthusiastically, but Peter was clearly torn and Cedric was relieved to see at least one of them cautious about it. Scott was like Harry in that he didn't do things by halves, but it made him reckless to the point of folly at times, and Ed just followed his heart. Peter actually considered things.

Fleur had returned, floating a tray that contained a large teapot and cups, as well as sugar and milk. "You Know Who killed Susan's aunt," Ed was saying as he accepted the cup Fleur gave him. "I think I'd join for that reason alone. So would Susan."

"Susan Bones is still a student," Dumbledore replied gently, accepting his own cup as well as sugar, no milk. Others helped themselves.

"So's Harry Potter," Ed returned. "And Susan was in the D.A., plus she helped Harry get away from Umbridge there at the end along with the other Gryffindors and Luna. She'd have gone to London with them too, if she hadn't been needed to stay there and tell Cedric's mum. And, well, me too." His eyes lowered. Cedric knew he still felt stupid for being unable to Apparate the necessary distance from Hogwarts to Manchester on the way to the Ministry.

"As I said a moment ago," Dumbledore replied gently, "both you and Miss Bones performed an absolutely essential role _because_ you stayed behind, Ed. When she is of age, I will certainly consider Susan for membership in the Order, but for now, none of our students are full members - no, not even Harry Potter. In fact, part of the mission of the Order is to _protect_ Harry and see to it that he is able to complete his magical education."

"Harry's still got a lot to learn," Bill Weasley said, speaking up for the first time. "For that matter, all of you do too. Scott may be in the Auror academy, and I've been working a little with Cedric, but if you two join, I'll need to give you all a crash course in essential curse breaking, warding, and other things. Remember - Harry, Susan, Ron, Hermione . . . they're all two years _behind_ you blokes. Let's not throw them to the lions yet, yeah?"

Ed nodded, looking a bit guilty for thinking to endanger Susan, although Cedric understood the impetus to include her. It had been frustrating for him last year being unable to tell his denmates anything, and he was grateful he didn't have to watch what he said with Hermione. "Could Susan at least know about it?" Cedric asked. "Like Hermione, Harry and the Weasleys? That way Ed wouldn't have to watch everything he said around her, sort of like how things are for me and Hermione. And, er" - he was blushing to advise Dumbledore - "maybe Neville Longbottom could be told too? His parents were in the original Order, and Neville fought in London; he deserves to know. If, well, if you think it wouldn't be too much of a danger to either of them?"

Dumbledore's eyes twinkled behind his glasses and Cedric was relieved that he didn't seem insulted. "I will take it under consideration, Cedric. But if I decide not to follow your suggestion, please understand it isn't from doubt about their bravery or loyalties; Miss Bones and Mr. Longbottom have aptly demonstrated both. It would be to protect them. As I explained earlier, even knowing about the Order is dangerous."

Cedric nodded, as did Ed again.

And that concluded the discussion more or less. There was a bit more talk as people finished their tea, then Dumbledore departed along with Scott and Tonks - and Ed, who was staying with Scott. Fleur and Bill took the teapot, cups and other things back to the kitchen whilst Cedric Summoned sheets for Peter to bunk down on the couch. Silent, Peter watched. "What sorts of things do you get asked to do?" he inquired finally, breaking the silence. "I mean, you're . . . well, uh, I'm not sure what sorts of things you could do, or that I could do . . . " he trailed off, blushing.

"Because I'm crippled?" Cedric asked, trying to keep it level - wasn't sure he succeeded. "There are limits, obviously. I'm supposed to be helping Remus Lupin do research for Dumbledore, but Lupin's been sent off on a different assignment, so I'm just cooling my heels at the moment, doing my job at the Ministry and reporting anything suspicious. We're sure Voldemort has spies there. I've not been sent anywhere that involves fighting, no. Mostly, we're asked to do things we're able to do. Nobody's had his arm twisted, not even Snape."

"_Snape?" _Peter's jaw dropped. "Professor Snape is in this Order?"

"That was pretty much my reaction too, but yeah, he is." Cedric kept to himself what Snape did for the Order, but wanted to tell Peter some things, relieved he finally could. If Peter decided not to join, Dumbledore would erase it all anyway. The couch ready with sheets now, Cedric turned his attention to Peter. "Nobody will ask you to do something you don't want to do. For that matter, you don't even have to join. I just . . . wanted Dumbledore to give all of you a chance."

Peter nodded. "Thanks. I appreciate that. And I - " He swallowed. "I want to. I'm just not brave like you and Scott, or Ed for that matter."

"Rubbish," Cedric replied, genuinely surprised. "Peter, you stood up to Umbridge, you joined the DA, you fought at the Ministry - "

"But that was because all of you did. I didn't let myself stop to think about it. I _want_ to join this too, then I think about what Dumbledore said - half the people in the old Order are dead . . . What if I'm not strong enough? What if . . . what if Death Eaters capture me and I give you away? I'm not sure I even have anything worth being made a member _for_. I'm not like you with your gift for inspiring people, or like Scott with his ability to fight, or even like Ed with his plain strength. The man's a bloody ox. I don't have any special gifts."

Cedric shook his head. "Stop it, Peter. You were my first friend at Hogwarts. Do you remember that? You were the first person to say something nice to me on the Hogwarts Express, and we stood together waiting to be Sorted by the Hat. I was so relieved when it sent you to Hufflepuff after putting me there."

"I, er," - he blushed - "I asked it to. You were the only one I knew in the entire castle. I didn't want to be in another house."

Smiling, Cedric just nodded. "It put you there because you were that loyal to somebody you'd just met. And you're tougher than you think. But it's getting dangerous out there - you heard about Fortescue and Olivander, didn't you? That's besides what happened to Wilhelm Wigworthy and Amelia Bones. It's not a time to draw attention to yourself so I won't blame you if you say 'no' to this."

"Like you're one to talk, Ced - convincing the Minister to create a new government position just for _you_?" Cedric blushed, but Peter's grin was fond. "That's just it. That's what I mean - you thumb your nose at You Know Who by getting the Minister to make you the Liaison for Muggle Affairs, or whatever the bloody hell it is they're calling you. Scott joins the Aurors at the most dangerous time possible. Ed - he's still being asked to talk about leading Hufflepuff to stand up to Umbridge last spring, and maybe she's no Death Eater but she was against Dumbledore."

"You fought in London, Peter."

"But I didn't go down there to fight. I went down there to help you stop Potter. I didn't expect we'd be facing _Death Eaters_, by Merlin! Then I had to fight or get killed. It's not something I chose to do. I'm not barking suicidal - unlike Scott."

That made Cedric laugh. "You sound like Harry, actually. If you talk to him, he says pretty much the same thing. He's fought Voldemort because he didn't have a choice."

"'There are no brave men, only fools who have no choice,'" Peter said, but it was clear from his tone that he was quoting something.

"Huh?"

"This old Gypsy man said that," Peter explained. "My family went to the Continent for a holiday when I was ten, the summer before Hogwarts, and in one of the cities we were in, there was a Wizard fair. People'd come from all over, including some gypsies. I'd never seen gypsies, just heard about them and their magic. They were selling potions and charms and fortunes - and telling stories too. We stopped to listen and the old man said that at the end of this story, like the moral**: **'There are no brave men, only fools who have no choice'. I remembered it - probably because dad said a wise man would've run the other way." His grin was lopsided. "I suppose that makes me a fool."

Smiling back, Cedric said, "Well, you don't have to make up your mind until tomorrow. Sleep on it. Like I said, I certainly won't blame you if you decide to keep your opposition a little less obvious."

"I'd blame me," Peter replied, but he'd turned away to pull off his robes and shirt and get ready for bed. Cedric left him to his privacy.

* * *

><p><strong>Notes:<strong>In The Half-blood Prince, we're told only that McLaggen's uncle is named Tiberius. I decided to make that his mother's brother, named after his grandfather, Tiberius Ogden, to create a little stemma for him. But it's invented, not canon. On the saying Peter repeats, I was told that by a Romany man, who said it was an old traditional saying. I've never heard it since, however.

Yes, I placed the small Transfigurations "college" at Oxford, under Holywell Manor; with Holywell's post-graduate population, slightly older students (as many of these are) would be less likely to be noticed coming and going. Much like Diagon Alley, the Ministry, and Platform 9¾, "Holywell Under" exists alongside this near-oldest of Oxford's colleges. All this is mostly to amuse myself; it's not terribly important for the story.


	8. Sleet & Curses

"Yes, Miss Granger?" Professor McGonagall held open the door to her office, letting Hermione inside. Hermione had made an appointment with her head of house one week before the first Hogsmeade weekend. She was following the rules to the letter, and now handed McGonagall a written request that included person, dates and location - exactly as required.

Surprised and curious, McGonagall looked down through her glasses at the parchment. Hermione watched her lips thin slightly. "I am seventeen," Hermione said - needlessly. She was quite certain McGonagall knew that.

"Indeed," was all McGonagall said, weaving back through the organized chaos of her office towards her desk. Dipping her quill, she signed the parchment, tapped it with her wand to make a duplicate, then returned one of them to Hermione. "You'll need to show that to Mr. Filch when you leave, and when you return as well. But I suspect you already know the procedure."

"Yes, professor. And thank you." Hermione turned to leave.

"Hermione," McGonagall said, her voice soft with the unexpected familiarity of a given name. Surprised, Hermione looked back. "Try not to grow up too fast, all right? You have your whole life ahead of you."

Hermione refrained from qualifying, 'if I survive the war', merely nodded and gave McGonagall a small smile. "Don't worry - I'm not. And I haven't lost sight of my own ambitions, either." She knew that was the older woman's real worry.

Smiling back faintly, McGonagall just nodded.

Hermione didn't tell the boys - or anybody else - about her permission slip. She just didn't feel like arguing with them about the wisdom of her choice. The autumn term had been rough; she needed this - and let the rest of the school talk. It wasn't as if they weren't talking anyway.

That Saturday dawned unseasonably cool and quite stormy, the sky glowering at the earth with low, dark clouds. Hermione applied a water-repellent charm to her coat and hat, then packed her rucksack with a change of clothing, a little book (not even homework), and her permission slip. She skipped breakfast, joining Harry and Ron as they waited in line to leave the castle. Ron had to tell her all about a new spell that Harry had tried on him that morning. ". . . just hanging in the air upside-down. And then, with another flash of light, I landed on my bed again!"

Hermione glared from Ron to Harry, unable to fathom why they thought it funny to be yanked up into the air to dangle helpless. Narrowing her eyes at Harry, she asked, "This spell didn't happen to come from that Potions book of yours, did it?"

Harry's expression turned mulish. "Always jump to the worst conclusion, don't you?"

"Well? Did it?"

"Yeah. But so what?"

"So you just decided to try out an unknown, handwritten incantation and see what would happen?" She was aghast.

"Why does it matter if it's handwritten?" Harry asked, clearly not getting it.

"Because it's probably not Ministry of Magic-approved!" Hermione replied, throwing up hands. "You had no idea what it would do! I'm starting to think this Prince character was a bit dodgy."

Both Harry and Ron gaped, then Ron said, "It was for a laugh, Hermione! Just a laugh!"

"Oh, honestly! Dangling people upside down by an ankle? Who puts time and energy into inventing spells like that?"

"Fred and George," Ron answered without even pausing. "It's their kind of thing, and, er - "

"My dad," Harry added, looking as if he'd only then remembered something.

Surprised, Hermione blinked at him. "What?"

"My dad used this spell. I - Lupin told me."

Hermione didn't think that was what Harry had intended to say; he was a poor liar. "Maybe your dad did use it, Harry," she replied, still unhappy, "but he's not the only one. We've seen a whole bunch of people use it, in case you've forgotten. Dangling people in the air. Making them float along, asleep - helpless."

Surely they couldn't have forgotten that. It had been the stuff of nightmares for Hermione for weeks afterwards, imagining her own parents subjected to such humiliation by wizards who cared little for human dignity, or at least didn't consider Muggles (and Muggle-borns) fully 'human' in the first place.

Harry was looking suitably chastised, but Ron just shrugged and insisted, "That was different. They were abusing it. Harry and his dad were just having a laugh. You can misuse anything, Hermione, and you don't like the Prince because he's better at Potions than you - "

"It's got nothing to do with that!" Hermione snapped, irritated. "It's not always personal, Ronald. I just don't think it's very responsible to start performing spells when you've no idea what they're for - and stop talking about 'the Prince' as if it's his title. I bet it's just a stupid nickname and it doesn't seem to me as though he was a terribly nice person!"

"Don't see where you get that from!" Harry retorted. "If he'd been a budding Death Eater, he wouldn't have been boasting about being a 'half-blood,' would he?"

"Oh, for heaven's sake, the Death Eaters can't all be purebloods. There aren't enough pureblood wizards left, even if you count the ones like Ron's family who definitely aren't on You Know Who's side! I expect most of them are half-bloods, or part-bloods like Cedric, pretending to be pure. It's only us Muggle-borns they hate. They'd be quite happy to let you, Ron or Ced join up."

"Oh, certainly!" Ron replied. They'd almost reached the head of queue at the door, and Filch glanced up at Ron's raised voice. "There's no way they'd let me be a Death Eater," he said more softly. "Nor Cedric, either. We're both blood traitors. That's as bad as Muggle-borns to them!"

"And they'd love to have me," Harry added sarcastically. "We'd be best pals if they didn't keep trying to do me in."

That made Ron laugh, and even Hermione had to smile at the dark humour of it. It was time to stop talking in any case, as they were next. It had taken forever for the line to advance as Filch was checking not just permission slips, but everybody's person with his Secrecy Sensor. "What does it matter if we're smuggling Dark stuff out?" Ron muttered, eying the long, thin, needle-like instrument with distaste as Filch aimed it at him. "Surely you ought to be checking what we bring back in!"

"That I will, laddie," Filch replied, poking his cheek hard with the sensor. "Take off that cloak."

As Filch gave Ron a thorough going over, Harry asked Hermione, "Why are you bringing your bag?"

She just shrugged and didn't look at him. "Probably planning to buy a load of books and they're easier to carry that way," Ron suggested, holding out his arms for Filch. "You can see how light it is - must be empty."

She ignored that too. Unfortunately, Filch wasn't as disinterested. When it came to her turn, he eyed the bag suspiciously and despite what her slip said, he insisted she open the bag and take everything out so he could run the sensor over it. Annoyed to find it all innocuous, he shoved it back at her to repack. "You can go," he snarled.

Whilst she repacked her bag, she tried to ignore the confused glances Ron and Harry were giving each other, and her. "Why've you got _clothes_ in there?" Ron asked finally.

"Because I won't be coming back tonight," she replied calmly.

"What?" Ron and Harry said together, and Harry went on, "You're not _leaving school_, are you?"

"Of course not!" she replied, slinging the rucksack over her back and starting down the path towards the school gates. "I'm just not coming back _tonight_."

"Where are you going? I mean, staying? And I didn't think you were allowed to - "

Spinning around, she glared at both boys. "I'm seventeen - and the rest is none of your business."

Pansy Parkinson and several of her friends were passing on the path and now laughed at the trio, Pansy calling, "She'll be staying with her _lover boy_, of course." The start from Ron and Harry was almost comical, and Hermione resisted rolling her eyes, wishing she could just sink into the earth. She really hadn't wanted to give Pansy and the old Inquisitorial Squad anything more with which to rip at her reputation. "It's called 'married student dispensation'," Pansy added, "except of course, she's not _married_." And that brought derisive laughter as the five Slytherin girls disappeared up the path.

"Stupid cow," Hermione muttered, "like she's one to talk about being _married_ first."

Ron's face had turned stubborn, Harry's was just . . . bemused. Perhaps amused. "He's meeting you in Hogsmeade," Ron asked without asking. "Cedric."

"If you must know, Ron, yes, he is." Rucksack back on her shoulder, she returned to making her way up the path. "Do you really _want_ to know the rest?"

"Er, no thanks."

"I didn't think so. And," she added after a moment, "it's not called 'married student dispensation' anymore. Pansy is at least fifty years out of date. It's just the policy for any student of age. You can request to leave the school grounds and even stay overnight, as long as you give a specific destination, contact information, and the name of an adult non-student you'll be with. It's most commonly invoked on Hogsmeade weekends, but not limited to them. And as you know, the seventh years have a later curfew on those weekends than the rest of us as it is."

"You're not a seventh year," Ron pointed out.

"Oh, Ron," she said, sure she sounded tired. And she was. Tired of defending Cedric to him, tired of the need to conceal the seriousness of their relationship from most everyone at school, and tired of the stares she sometimes felt on her back in the hallways.

Now, Harry came to her rescue. "Well, I'm glad Ced'll be there. It'll give me a chance to tell him about that first lesson with Dumbledore."

Ron didn't reply to that. It was taking enough effort just to make it up the road against the bitter wind. Given the weather that day, she might not have bothered going to Hogsmeade at all if Cedric weren't waiting there for her.

But waiting he was - and not in The Three Broomsticks, as they'd agreed. He was waiting in the middle of the lane that led between the village and the castle. Even wrapped in a heavy cloak and a navy scarf, he still cut a distinctive figure on the crutches. Spotting him, she gave up on a stately pace and simply ran, pulling up only at the last moment to avoid knocking him over in her enthusiasm. But he was grinning widely and she could smell the familiar warmth of him as she flung her arms around him. One of his arms went around her too as he balanced on the other crutch. "_Missedyoumissedyoumissedyou_," she said, then pulled away to glare at him. "But I told you just to wait in the pub."

He'd been laughing through her stranglehold on his neck and didn't stop at her glare. "Didn't want to wait," he replied, but then he was glancing past her and his smile widened. "Harry! Good to see you, mate."

Hermione moved aside to let Harry approach. He looked a little surprised when Cedric used his free hand to pull him into a brief hug too, but Hermione smiled. Harry wasn't used to touching or being touched, but it was good for him. With Cedric getting a job at almost the same time Harry had left the Dursleys that summer, they hadn't had a lot of time to meet, but Hermione thought it important for Harry to have Cedric. He had the Weasleys too, of course, but his relationship with Cedric had always been different.

Now Ron was glaring slightly, but Cedric ignored that to smile at him too and offer a hand, which Ron was too polite not to accept. "Congratulations on making Keeper again," Cedric told him. That lightened Ron's face a bit, and he nodded back. If not completely friendly, he no longer looked set to chew nails, either. "Where shall we go first?" Cedric asked them.

"Well, we were planning to go to Zonko's," Harry replied carefully, as if uncertain whether Cedric would be interested in the joke shop, or hanging out with 'the kids'.

"It's closed," Cedric replied, making a face.

"_Closed? _But it's a Hogsmeade Saturday!" Ron said. "Why would they close on a Hogsmeade Saturday?"

"Sorry, I didn't mean 'closed' for the day. I mean it's shut down and boarded up."

"Oh."

Ron and Harry looked so distressed at the loss of the joke shop that Hermione would have laughed if not for the probable cause behind the closure. "The owners haven't - ?" she began.

Cedric shook his head. "I don't think so. I think they just moved back to the continent - decided it was safer. But let's go somewhere out of the wind, yeah?"

The news of the joke shop's closing put a bit of a damper on the mood, but the four of them decided to try Honeydukes. Harry and Ron wanted to stock up on sweets and Cedric said he wanted fudge. "Ced - you go on," Harry suggested. "You can Apparate, so take the short cut and we'll catch up."

Cedric appeared dubious, but Hermione nodded firmly and with the weather so horrid, he took the suggestion without arguing. She, Harry and Ron hurried as much as they could - "Leg it!" Ron ordered - grateful to duck into the warm sweets shop at last. But almost immediately, Hermione wished they hadn't when a great, booming voice called out, "Harry, m'boy!"

Harry looked no more pleased than Hermione felt, and they all three turned to see Professor Slughorn standing there taking up the space of three people in the little shop and crowding Cedric on his crutches. Hermione sighed. Of _course_ Slughorn had already spotted and snared the Triwizard Champion.

"That's three of my little suppers you've missed," Slughorn was saying, motioning Harry over with the hand that wasn't holding an oversized bag of crystallized pineapple. He wore an enormous fur hat and fur-trimmed coat that Hermione suspected would have caused her PETA card-carrying mother to breathe fire. "It won't do, m'boy, I'm determined to have you! Miss Granger loves them, don't you?"

And what could she say to that, but, "Yes, of course, they're really -"

"So why don't you come along, Harry? And Miss Granger, why on earth didn't you tell me that you're seeing Lucretia Malfoy's son! My heavens, young lady!" Hermione blinked; it wasn't how she'd expected Slughorn to describe Cedric, but now that she thought about it, of course he'd have known Mrs. Diggory. She'd been in his house, and as a painter, Potions would have to have been one of her better subjects - a point that Slughorn confirmed. "Lucy was one of my most talented students ever - no slight to your own dear mother, Harry. Lily Evans was quite the potions mistress - "

"It's okay," Harry was saying, "Ced's mother _is_ sort of, er, famous. And we've had Quidditch practice, Professor. I haven't been free most evenings for a supper party."

"Well, I certainly expect you to win your first match after all this hard work! But a little recreation never hurt anybody. Now, how about Monday night? You can't possibly want to practice in this weather -"

"I can't, Professor, I've got, er, an appointment with Professor Dumbledore that evening."

"Unlucky again!" Slughorn cried dramatically, placing a pudgy hand over his heart. "Ah, well - you can't evade me forever, Harry!"

"Of course not, Professor. I'd love to come . . . sometime." His smile was utterly fake and Hermione was quite sure he was crossing his fingers behind his back, but he swiftly dragged off Ron to look at sugar quills. She would get him later for abandoning her and Cedric to Slughorn.

Cedric, however, was looking more bemused than distressed. Slughorn had turned back to her and clapped her shoulder in a friendly way. "Well," he said, smiling at her, "I don't suppose I should be surprised the Triwizard Champ" - (ah, so he _wasn't_ oblivious to that) - "should cast his eye on such a clever young witch as yourself." He glanced up at Cedric, who even on the crutches was still a full head taller. "You mark my words, Mr. Diggory, this one will go places. I know how to spot 'em." He tapped the fleshy folds beside his eye. "I knew your mother would be somebody almost from the moment her shadow darkened my classroom door. Brilliant girl, simply brilliant. Certainly she turned out to be the only one from that lot to amount to anything." He wrinkled his nose as if to indicate his opinion of the rest of the Malfoy clan, and Hermione viciously wished Draco could be around to hear that.

"But you're telling me you were sorted into _Hufflepuff_?" Slughorn went on. "Your father a lion, your mother among the crown jewels of my house - but you wore the yellow and black? Tosh!"

Cedric's expression turned a bit hard. "My house has its virtues, Professor."

"Of course it does, of course it does. I meant no slight to the noble house of Helga, I was just surprised." Hermione wondered if he'd be so surprised if he could have seen them all last year set Dolores Umbridge on her ear when the other houses had been impotent. "Be that as it may" - Slughorn reached up to grip Cedric's cloak as if afraid Cedric would get away - "and while this is a bit early to be offering invitations, I'm planning a little Christmas Party. Miss Granger will be invited, of course, along with some other promising students, but I plan to have a number of adult guests - some of whom you might want to meet for your future career in the Ministry, Mr. Diggory. You'll have to come as our lovely Hermione's escort for the evening, and please bring your mother, too. I'll send a card to the Ministry for you as a reminder later."

"Thank you, sir. And I'll be sure to pass on your invitation to her."

"Excellent, excellent." He released Cedric and patted his arm. "You two kids have a lovely afternoon, terrible weather not withstanding."

"And you as well. It was very good to meet you finally."

Slughorn gave a rather pompous wave as he turned down the flaps of his fur hat and waddled out into the sleet. As soon as the door closed, Cedric startled giggling. "He is _something else_!"

With Slughorn gone, Harry and Ron wandered back over. "'Something else' is one way of putting it," Harry muttered.

Cedric shot him a grin. "He may be a bit of an old fart, but he's not all bad. My mother's actually rather fond of him."

"Really?" Hermione asked, finding it hard to imagine the curt and honest Lucy Diggory being fond of that old bag of wind. In fact, she'd assumed coming to Slughorn's Christmas party would be the last thing Mrs. Diggory would want to do.

"Oh, yes. He's a blow-hard, no mistake, but he's also an excellent potions teacher - certainly better than Snape. I might have got better marks in Potions if I'd had him."

"Sure you would," Ron said. "You've got a famous mother, and it's not like he plays favourites or anything."

Cedric ignored that, but Harry's lips thinned; Hermione elbowed Ron, wishing he'd think a bit more before running off at the mouth. Cedric wasn't the only one with a mother Slughorn had been fond of. "Let's go to The Three Broomsticks," Harry suggested before Ron could say anything else. "At least it'll be warm."

"Did you get what you came for?" Cedric asked.

"Yeah."

"Then you two go on; I really do want some fudge."

"All right, we'll see you there in a bit."

Cedric got his fudge - some of which Hermione recognized as _her_ favourite flavour. "Is that for me?" she asked.

"Maybe," he replied as he waved open the shop door so they could exit. There was a little awning there where they paused before heading out into the messy weather. Carefully juggling the bag and his balance, he levitated out the block of white-chocolate raspberry, slicing off a little piece with his wand. She opened her lips in anticipation of being fed, but he popped the piece into his own mouth.

"You prat!" she gasped.

He opened his lips, showing the white square caught between his teeth. "Come and get it," he said, words garbled by fudge. He leaned down a little.

She wanted to laugh. She wanted to say 'ew!' because fishing even fudge out of his mouth was a little off-putting. But the look in his eye was too wicked, and expectant, and hopeful. He wanted to be kissed. So she leaned up on tiptoe and obediently closed her lips on his, accepting the fudge he pushed into her mouth with his tongue. Drawing back, she sucked on it. "You could have just _asked_ for a kiss, you know," she told him. "Bribes aren't required."

Putting away his wand and secreting the bag of fudge in a pocket of his cloak, he asked, "Where's the fun in that?"

She laughed around sweetness. One of the things she loved about him was his ability to surprise her even after a year together. "Do you remember our first Hogsmeade a year ago?" she asked.

"Mm, I was thinking of that earlier." He smiled down at her. "First date."

"Yeah, it was."

"Did you think, then, that we'd still be together now?"

She tilted her head, watching the sleet come down into the street rather than looking up at him. "I didn't even consider it. Not because I doubted it, but because I wasn't thinking that far. What about you?"

"I think I knew then this was different, what we had. But yeah - not thinking that far yet."

"Do you think that far now? A year ahead?"

"Absolutely."

She looked up at him finally; he wasn't looking at her either. "I do too."

He blushed a little at that, but turned his head to smile and she reached up to touch his cheek. "Ready to brave the elements?" she asked, changing the subject before it could get too serious.

"I suppose," he replied. "Want me to Apparate us?"

"Sure." She wrapped her arms around his waist, and a moment later, they were in the little alley beside the pub and inn. It was just a few steps to the door, but Hermione still felt chilled to the bone by the time they reached it, her damp hair frozen stiff. It opened before she could reach the handle, revealing - of all people - Scott Summers. "What are you doing here?" she squeaked.

"Waiting for Tonks, who had to keep Harry from hexing Mundungus Fletcher."

Baffled, she hurried into the little vestibule, moving aside to let Cedric enter. He pulled back his hood and peered at Scott. "Why on earth was he going to hex Dung?"

"Stupid plonker nicked some silver from the Black house. Harry's . . . pretty upset. Why don't you two go on in and try to calm him down?"

"What are you and Tonks doing here anyway?" Cedric asked as Hermione took his cloak to hang beside hers on the coat rack.

Scott shrugged. "Tonks has been on and off duty up here. I volunteered to come with her today."

"I take it that means no beer?" Cedric asked.

Scott's smile was wry. "You take it correctly. Sorry, mate. Maybe tomorrow. We can head back to London together."

"I'll see you later then," Cedric replied, and let Scott open the door into the bar for him.

Hermione followed, glancing over her shoulder and whispering, "He's looking rather . . . serious . . . these days." She turned her attention back to him. "And are he and Tonks - "

"Hermione!" said a voice at Hermione's elbow, making her start. Tonks, of course. "How are you?"

"Fi-fine," Hermione stuttered, hoping Tonks hadn't overheard the beginning of her question. "Scott said Harry almost hexed Mundungus Fletcher?"

"We stopped him. Well, Dung Disapparated first, actually. I thought the boy was going to burst a blood vessel, he was so angry."

"Where is he now?" Hermione asked. Tonks pointed towards the back of the bar. Fingers tangled in Cedric's robes, Hermione pulled Cedric along after her, patrons scooting feet and chairs out of the way so that he could pass.

Once Tonks was out of earshot, Cedric said, "Scott's always had a serious side. As for Scott and Tonks, er, your guess is as good as mine. They seem to be attached at the hip - except not. They spend half their time off together, but I've never seen them touch - beyond her punching him for being a git. And I'm pretty damn sure they're not sleeping together. I haven't figured it out, either. Fleur says it's a mating dance, but Scott never takes this long to move on a girl."

Hermione smiled faintly. "I don't think Scott's ever liked a _woman_" - she stressed it - "as much as he likes Tonks."

"True, that," Cedric replied.

They'd arrived at Harry and Ron's table; Harry stared glumly at the top while Ron watched Madam Rosmerta behind the bar. Before they sat, Cedric whispered to Hermione, "Could you . . . distract Ron for a bit, take him somewhere? Not necessarily outside. But I need to talk to Harry for a minute."

"Okay," she whispered back, trying to figure out where on earth she could take Ron without going outside into the sleet. She let Cedric settle into the chair beside Harry and ask him about Mundungus whilst she sat beside Ron. Harry exploded into a hand-waving rant that began, "That tealeaf nicked Sirius's things!" The more he talked, however, the more it became clear he didn't care about the missing silver, only that Mundungus had taken objects that reminded Harry of Sirius. Cedric seemed to realize the same, and was speaking to Harry calmly, one hand on Harry's shoulder.

Realizing that none of them had anything to drink gave Hermione the excuse she'd been seeking. "Ron, come and help me get drinks." She looked around at them. "Butterbeer?"

"Mulled mead for me," Cedric said. "I want something warm."

She half expected Ron to object to helping, but Rosmerta was behind the bar and he seemed pleased with an excuse to talk to her. "Let's go," he said.

* * *

><p>Cedric nodded his thanks to Hermione as she led Ron away. In truth, it wasn't Ron he'd wanted to get rid of, however. "Harry," he said, gently interrupting the younger boy. "I need to talk to you about that Potions book."<p>

"Oh, not you too!" Harry replied, glaring.

It made Cedric smile. "Yes, me too - although maybe not like you expect. I wanted to say this while Hermione's not around." He kept one eye on her as she talked to Madam Rosmerta, but his comment had snagged Harry's interest. "Why do you think Hermione's so upset about you using that book?"

"Because it's not 'Ministry of Magic approved'," Harry replied in a mocking sing-song.

"Oh, please - use your head. Try again."

"Ron says she's jealous because this Half-Blood Prince was better at Potions than she is."

"That may be some of it. But not most of it."

"Well, what _is_ it then?"

Cedric looked away from the bar to meet Harry's eyes. "Harry, you've known her over five years now, right? How does Hermione tell a person she cares about him?"

The question seemed to puzzle Harry, who Cedric could almost _see_ turning it over in his mind. Finally, lips twitching, he replied, "Er - nag him to death?"

That brought an equally small smile from Cedric. "Not the politest way of putting it but correct, essentially. It goes deeper than that, though. Hermione's not cut out to be the front woman; it makes her nervous. But ask her to work behind the scenes or help with something and she'll bend over backwards - and all she wants in return is a 'thank you'. She needs to be needed, Harry. As much as getting her to do your and Ron's homework isn't fair" - he tilted his chin down to glare - "by the same token, she likes to be asked. That's why it's easy for you to take advantage of her, isn't it?" Harry was blushing and not looking at Cedric. "Yet now, all of a sudden, you're better than she is in Potions. It's not about _marks_, Harry - not entirely. It's that you don't seem to _need _her anymore. That puts her off balance."

Cedric wished he'd had time to _lead_ Harry to that conclusion, not just lecture him, but he wasn't certain how long it would take Hermione to get the drinks.

"So you're, er, saying I should ask her advice?"

"It wouldn't hurt."

"But her advice is to get rid of the book."

Cedric shook his head. "A bit of caution about it isn't a bad idea, you know."

"Now you sound like her!"

"Would you stop being so defensive? There's more to spells and potions than just following directions. There's _theory_ behind it too. I'm not going to tell you to get rid of your Potions book, but I would tell you to sit down with those modified recipes and look at them - what's this Half-Blood Prince done? Why do his versions work better? Figure that out and you'll have learnedsomething."

Harry had his lips pursed but at least he wasn't arguing, and Ron and Hermione were headed back in any case. "I'd talk to you more about it but we're out of time. Just . . . remember what I said, all right?"

"All right."

Hermione handed him his mulled mead and he noticed she had one for herself too, which Harry eyed with surprise and Ron with envy. "She wouldn't buy any for us, mate," Ron said, handing over Harry's bottle of Butterbeer.

"You're not seventeen," Hermione replied. "And Madam Rosmerta knows it."

"Yeah, well, it's freezing out there," Harry said. "I could do with hot chocolate at least, but she doesn't serve it."

"Why not suggest she add it?" Cedric asked, taking a pull from his tankard and sighing softly as the warmth hit his throat and slid down to his belly.

"Huh." Harry appeared surprised at the suggestion. "Maybe I will."

Cedric nodded. Forthright as he was, Harry rarely tried changing something he didn't like, just accepted it passively until things got so bad he lashed back, as with Umbridge last year. Hermione had organized the D.A., not Harry. And the year before that, Cedric had never heard Harry protest being forced into the Tournament, which was part of why at first he'd believed, along with most everyone else, that Harry _had_ put his name in the Goblet whatever he'd claimed to the contrary. Hermione said she thought Harry had learned passivity living with the Dursleys, which Cedric supposed made sense. Now he pointed out, "If somebody doesn't know you want something changed, they can't consider changing it. The worst she could say is, 'No'."

"True. Don't see her right now, though."

"She seemed to have something on her mind earlier," Hermione said. "She was acting a bit out of sorts. Or maybe she's just nervous these days like everybody else."

Someone accidentally jostled Cedric's arm while passing their table, and he glanced around at the two girls squeezing past. One he didn't recognize, but the other - "Katie Bell!"

She turned, startled, then smiled and held out a hand to him. "Cedric Diggory! What are you - " but she trailed off as she spotted Hermione. "Oh, I suppose that should have been obvious." She grinned. "I heard you're working at the Ministry?"

"I am," he said, giving her hand a brief shake. "And I heard you're the star Chaser for Gryffindor this year."

Blushing a bit, she shot a glance past him to Harry. "Well, we'll see how the first game turns out before anybody's called 'star' anything. Harry's a slave driver."

"Not as bad as Wood was," Harry said.

"Nobody could be as bad as Wood was," Katie agreed. "That boy ate, drank and slept Quidditch. Of course, look where it got him - Puddlemere United. We should all be that demented." They laughed, except for Hermione, who appeared long-suffering, and Katie's friend, who appeared miffed about something. "But we should go," Katie added. "I have to get back to the castle."

"I still don't see _why_," the friend said, speaking up for the first time. "I thought we were going to order lunch? Then you came back with that package and now all of a sudden you have to go back to the castle?"

"I just . . . do," Katie replied, looking a bit evasive. "I have to deliver it to someone." And she headed for the pub door.

"At least tell me _who_!" the other girl called, chasing after her.

As if their departure were his cue, Harry stood, finishing off his Butterbeer. "We should go back too. I don't think Ginny's showing up."

"Was she supposed to?" Ron asked, curious and looking around as he rose.

"She said she might meet up with us later, but I reckon she and Dean are all cosy in Madam Puddifoot's."

"You boys should lay off Ginny," Hermione scolded. "She's fifteen; she's allowed to see a boy if she wants to."

"I never said she couldn't, now did I?" Harry returned.

"Well, _I_ think she's a bit young for it," Ron said.

"Ron, you'll think she's a bit young for it when she's thirty."

Cedric just sipped mead and stayed out of it; overprotective brothers weren't to be messed with, even surrogate brothers . . . although the way Harry had spoken of Dean, it had sounded less protective and more envious.

"Well, uh" - Harry scratched his head and glanced from Hermione to Cedric and back to Hermione - "I reckon we'll . . . see you later?"

"Later," Hermione agreed, watching the boys make their way out.

Leaning over, Cedric asked, "They do know 'later' won't be later tonight?"

"Yes. Let's keep an eye out for a smaller table since it's down to just us."

They didn't have to wait long. Between the awful weather and the general social gloom, a number of students headed back to the castle early and a small table for two opened in a corner near the rear. Hermione carried her bag and their mugs as they made their way over to it. If further from the fireplace than Cedric might have liked, it was cosy and they could hold hands on the tabletop without the eyes of half the pub on them. He rubbed his thumb across her palm and smiled like a dope, but she was smiling right back and gripping his fingers. After a minute, she sat up a little and slipped her hand free. "Should we order lunch, do you think?"

"Probably." He wanted more mead but shouldn't have it on an empty stomach. "Then we could go upstairs - if you want." He tried not to sound _too_ eager . . . suspected he wasn't successful. "Madam Rosmerta's rooms weren't full, so she let me have ours early since the weather was so terrible. Not a good day for a stroll."

"No," Hermione agreed. "A better day to stay inside."

"The room has a fireplace with ash and apple wood," he said, warming to the topic. "We can curl up under the covers to watch it burn, and listen to the wind and rain _outside_." And do other things, but he didn't think he needed to specify that.

She smiled, then sobered. "Did, um, well, did you get any sense that Madam Rosmerta didn't, er, _approve_?"

He shook his head. "She's not that type, poppet. I told her you had the proper permission slip, and that was enough. She didn't even insist we show it to her, just took me at my word." He finished off his mead. "Truth is, she's a bit of a sop, Rosmerta. She thinks we are - as she put it - 'adorable'." He snorted and set down the empty mug.

Cheeks pink, Hermione finished her own mead, then rose. "I'll go and ask the barman for a menu."

She didn't get far. The front door of the pub was flung open and one of the townsfolk hurried in, all bundled up. "There's been a cursing!" she called out, untangling herself from her scarves and hat. "On the road up to the castle, one of the students. Heard the screaming clear to the station!"

This brought an eruption of questions and exclamations from pub-goers. Cedric felt his stomach clench and he grabbed for his crutches. Hermione had both hands to her mouth. "Harry and Ron - " she said, then was rushing for the door.

"Granger!" Cedric shouted after her. "Hermione! You can't go off alone!" But she wasn't listening. "Granger!" he bellowed, furious that he couldn't run after her. "Fuck!"

Nobody nearby paid him any mind, too intent on what the station woman had to say. Angry, he grabbed Hermione's abandoned bag and tried to fight his way towards the door through the agitated crowd, apologizing and swearing by turns. On the way, he heard enough snatches of conversation to make out that whoever had been cursed was a girl, so it couldn't be Harry or Ron. But would Hermione realize that before she got all the way back to the castle? And if she did go to the castle, would Filch let her leave again? Her bag - and permission slip - were with him.

He couldn't believe he was thinking so selfishly when some poor girl had been cursed, but, well - he was. He'd waited six long weeks for this day, and now that he knew it wasn't Harry or Ron, he wanted to find and take her back to the Three Broomsticks as quickly as possible, keep her safe. She had no business running around alone out there.

The weather had grown, if possible, even worse, sleet morphing into wet snow, the ground slick and muddy. Three times in fifty feet, his crutches slid and he thought he was going to crash to his knees. After the last time - a very close call - he wanted to throw the damn crutches and bellow in rage. He settled on a string of words that would probably have left Hermione gaping. Living with Bill hadn't done much for his vocabulary, or perhaps it had done a lot, depending on how one wanted to look at it.

But there was no way he'd get anywhere in this weather without Apparating, and there was no way he could Apparate onto the castle grounds-

- unless he caught Hermione before she got there? She couldn't be all the way back already, could she? So with a twist and pop, he emerged at the gates . . . only to find Tonks and Scott stationed right in front of them, huddled under rainproof cloaks. He must have startled them because both had out their wands even before they realized who he was, then they hurried over. "What the hell are you doing here?" Scott demanded. "Where's Hermione?"

"You haven't seen her? She's not gone by yet?"

"No. Did you two quarrel - ?"

He shook his head. "There's been some sort of emergency - "

"Yeah, we know," Tonks said. "Hagrid ran by about fifteen minutes ago, carrying some girl. It wasn't Hermione, though."

"No, she was with me in the Three Broomsticks. News made it there that somebody had been cursed on the way back to the castle. Harry and Ron had just left, so she ran out in a panic. Now she's out there alone and I can't move more than five feet in this fucking _mess_."

Scott set a hand on his shoulder. "She's not been by, don't worry; we'd have seen her. Head back to the pub and get dry. She'll likely go there once she realizes it's not Harry or Ron, and if she doesn't, we'll spot her and send her back, all right? And don't worry about the road, Ced. There are Aurors patrolling all along it. She'll be fine."

Aurors patrolling. That both relieved and left him cold at once. "All right. Thanks."

"No problem."

They stepped away and he Disapparated back to the pub, hoping it wouldn't anger anybody when he appeared right outside the door. People coming and going jumped at the sound, but seeing his crutches, nobody scolded him. One older man even paused to be certain he didn't go sprawling in the muck of the High Street. "All right, lad?" he asked.

"Fine, thanks," he puffed.

He'd almost reached the door when he heard a wild shout behind him. "Cedric!" He turned. It was Hermione. She came panting up, breath making heavy white clouds, one hand on his arm - to support him or herself, he wasn't certain. The old man stepped away. "What are you doing out here?" she demanded.

"Looking for you, you idiot!" Relieved she was back, he could afford to be angry, not just frightened. "Don't run off like that alone! Not these days! It's not safe."

She looked as if he'd slapped her, then her brows lowered. "But it's all right if _you_ run off alone looking for me?"

"I wasn't alone, and I had to find you!"

Abruptly, she sighed and rubbed right between her brows. "Come on, let's go back inside where it's warm and dry. I wasn't really alone, anyway. Harry, Ron and Leanne - Katie's friend - were still on the road. It was Katie, Cedric; it was Katie who was cursed."

"Bloody hell," he muttered, feeling sick. "Is she alive?"

"So far. I'll tell you more inside." He followed her back in and they didn't even pause in the now-buzzing bar, heading straight for the back where stairs went up to the rooms above. Hermione began to climb, but Cedric had to Apparate. The sickness in his centre felt worse. Katie was their age, and if Cedric knew all too well that Voldemort and his followers didn't give a damn about attacking a young person, it was still more upsetting somehow when it happened.

Their room seemed cramped, cold and dismal, Esiban asleep in his cage in the corner. Cedric aimed his wand at the fireplace to set it alight whilst Hermione helped him out of his cloak and scarf and gloves, then put them and her own on the rack in the corner, and left her shoes by the door. He had to sit down in one of the chairs by the fireplace to get his off. They were caked in mud and he'd left a trail across the hardwood floor and throw rugs. Hermione cleaned it up with a Scourgify or three.

When she returned, she plopped down in his lap. She looked weary, her bushy hair a damp and tangled mess, her nose and ears and cheeks red. And her eyes too - but not from cold. Reaching up, he wiped away her tears and she snuggled down against him, head on his shoulder. He didn't ask questions immediately, just held her tight to him. If she'd gone with Harry and Ron, would she have been the one cursed? "What happened?" he asked finally.

With a soft sigh, she sat up and ran a hand into her hair, pulling at the knots and making a face. "Bring me your brush," he told her. Esiban had woken and was clicking at them to let him out. She rose to do both, returning with a comb and the raccoon, who climbed up to perch on the back of the seat. Settling down on the chair edge in the spot Cedric had made between his legs, she let him work on her tangles while she talked.

"Leanne told me that she and Katie came into the pub to get out of the sleet. They had some tea and were getting ready to order lunch, but Katie went to the loo first. When she came back, she was carrying a package and told Leanne they had to go back to the castle because she had to deliver it to somebody. Leanne said she was acting all peculiar and wouldn't talk about what the package was or who it had to go to except that it was a present. Leanne didn't want to leave yet, but Katie insisted, and on the road back they got into an even bigger argument over the package. Leanne tried to snatch it from Katie, but Katie got angry and pulled back hard. It tore the paper and the package fell. When Katie bent to pick it up, she must have touched what was inside - an opal and silver necklace. Harry recognized it. He saw it in Borgin & Burkes and said it had a label on it that it was cursed. I saw the same one, when I went in there before school, so it had to have been purchased recently.

"Anyway, the curse lifted Katie up into the air, where she just sort of . . . hung . . . Harry said, with her eyes closed. Then all of a sudden, she woke up and started screaming like she was being burned alive. Leanne, Harry and Ron pulled her down and then she started writhing - like you, Harry said. She was screaming and writhing like you did when you came back from the graveyard. She didn't seem to recognize any of them or be aware at all."

Cedric had untangled half of her hair as she spoke, but now his hands stilled. More than a year later, he could still remember that agony. "Good God, I hope she passed out."

"Harry said he ran to get help, but met Hagrid on the road. Hagrid picked her up and carried her back to the school. I don't know if she passed out or not; I got there just after that. They were examining the necklace - "

"They didn't touch it!" Cedric said.

"Of course not. Anyway, Leanne told me what had happened while Harry wrapped it up to take back to Madam Pomfrey." Cedric had returned to brushing her hair, letting her finish. "Ron and Harry took Leanne and the necklace to the castle, and I came back here to tell you about it."

When Hermione had finished, Cedric didn't speak for a few minutes, just continued brushing. The room had begun to heat up from the fire, the perfume of the apple wood drifting sweet. Between the scent, the furry raccoon body curled against his shoulder, and the repetitive motion of brushing, he'd calmed down a little, no longer so anxious and ill. Hermione was right there in front of him. It hadn't been her.

But it could have been. What if she'd been the one to go into the girl's toilets? He pulled her back against his front. She settled there, not speaking. "She must have been Imperiused by somebody when she went into the toilets," he said.

"That's what Leanne thought. And that's part of why I came back; I was worried about you."

He smiled against her neck. "And I was worried about you. But I'm sure whoever got to Katie isn't still here. It'd be too dangerous when word reaches Dumbledore at the castle."

Hermione twisted a little in his grip and pushed her face against his neck. "Do you think Katie will be all right?"

"I don't know," he answered truthfully. "It depends on the nature of the curse, how much contact her skin had with it - she must not have been wearing gloves."

A sudden, sharp knock on the door startled them both as well as Esiban, who hissed and dug claws into Cedric's shoulder. "Ow," Cedric muttered, flinching.

"Are you two in there?" came a voice from the hall - Rosmerta's.

Rising, Hermione crossed to open the door a little, peering out, then opened it all the way to reveal the innkeeper. "Did something else happen?" she asked.

"No, no, but Professor McGonagall just Flooed, asking me to send all students back to the castle. While she doesn't think this is an attack on _students_, she'd rather err on the side of caution."

Hermione's expression probably echoed Cedric's own - shock and disappointment. "But I have permission to stay! And whoever gave Katie that cursed necklace is surely long gone."

Rosmerta sighed and tilted her head. "I told Minerva you wouldn't want to come." She glanced past Hermione to Cedric. "She said that if you insisted on staying, you were to remain in the pub, not go outside, and tomorrow, you're to return to the castle by Floo directly to her fireplace."

"All right. I just . . . I haven't seen him in six weeks."

Rosmerta reached out to pat Hermione's cheek fondly. "Love makes us brave and foolish both." Then she stepped back. "Cedric, send a message down to the bar when you kids are ready to eat. I'll have somebody bring up a meal. I'd rather you stayed out of sight, Hermione. It's safer."

"I will."

Hermione shut the door and came back to stand in front of Cedric, who tilted up his chin to look at her. "Remember what you said about me ordering you around?" she asked. "Well, we're going to bed so I can shag you silly."

Startled into laughter, he pushed himself up and reached for his crutches. "Whatever you say, Granger."


	9. The Politics of Hope

  
>When Hermione returned to the castle on Sunday afternoon through McGonagall's fireplace, she didn't go immediately to the Gryffindor tower. Instead she stopped outside a long hall on the third floor.<p>As Cedric had been removed from the office of Head Boy before the year's end, the official records would list his successor, Adrian Pucey, as Head Boy for 1995-96, even though Cedric had held that office for almost nine of ten months. The third floor contained his real legacy.<p>

Hermione's fingers stroked the brass plate beside the north entrance. It wasn't a big plate, but he'd be embarrassed to death if it were. Above both this door and the southern one, a much larger, painted sign read**: ****Hogwarts Common Room**. That's what he'd always called it, and what he'd want it called. But it had an official name too**: **_The Cedric Diggory Common Room for all Hogwarts Students_. Her lips curled, thinking what he'd say if he saw the plaque. Well, _when_ he saw it, because he'd be here for Slughorn's Christmas party in just two months, and knowing that would have to get her through until then because there'd be no more Hogsmeade weekends after what had happened to poor Katie Bell.

Like the curse on Cedric, the one on Katie had proved too serious for Madam Pomfrey, so Katie had been sent to St. Mungo's. That's what Professor McGonagall had told Hermione when she'd returned. Unlike Cedric, Katie had never regained consciousness - and might never do so. At least she wasn't dead. 'Where there's life, there's hope,' and all that.

Now, Hermione peeked into the Common Room. Once the hall of armour, long and dank and formal, it wore a softer mien these days. There were tables for studying, and couches from multiple eras in all the house colours for lounging. House banners lined the back wall and the Hogwarts banner itself graced the southern end while the trophy room lay to the north. The Triwizard Cup sat on its plinth outside. Cedric had left it here, saying it belonged to the school not to him personally, even if that weren't strictly true. He just didn't like seeing it; it had cost him too much. Fires were burning in both fireplaces, and the place was half full of students from various houses doing homework or meeting. The green and silver ties of Slytherin could be found among them. With the changed political climate and the return of Dumbledore, only a handful of students still avoided the room on principle. Personally, Hermione liked knowing there was one place in the castle she could go besides her own common room where Draco Malfoy wouldn't set foot.

But she did need to get back to the tower, so she didn't enter, hurrying on past to the staircase instead. When she reached Gryffindor's common room, it was solemn, and Harry and Ron pounced on her almost immediately, Harry spouting his theory that it must have been Draco who'd given Katie that cursed necklace, whatever McGonagall thought. Tired and depressed after leaving Cedric, as well as upset over what had happened to Katie, Hermione ran a hand through her hair. "Let me go and put my things away, all right? But if Professor McGonagall said Draco was at the castle, it can't have been him."

"He could've had an accomplice, like Crabbe or Goyle!" Harry protested.

"Katie went into the _girls'_ toilet. Why would either of them be hiding in there?"

"I don't know!" Harry snapped back. "Maybe his accomplice is a girl. We saw Pansy leaving the castle yesterday."

"We didn't see her in the pub, however," Hermione pointed out, adding, "I'll be back in a minute."

The rest of the afternoon went much like that, Harry obsessing over his theory that Draco was a Death Eater. Hermione tried to reason with him for a while, then gave up and just let him talk. She and Ron exchanged long-suffering looks.

Monday evening, Harry went to his second lesson with Dumbledore whilst Ginny and Hermione attended Slughorn's dinner party for the "Slug Club", as the professor called it. He seemed aware of how ridiculous it sounded, but found it amusing. Hermione wasn't sure how she felt about these dinners. On the one hand, it was nice to be recognized for her abilities not her birth - and by a Slytherin too. Plus Slughorn fed them well. That night, glazed grouse, baked potatoes and baked apples with toffee crumble graced the table. Slughorn didn't play favourites by house either, unlike Snape. Students from all four houses were represented, even Hufflepuff, whatever Slughorn had implied about them when talking to Cedric on Saturday. Susan Bones was there, probably due to her late aunt, along with a second year whose name Hermione couldn't remember but recognized as the little Jewish girl who idolized Cedric. It seemed her mother was well placed in the Israeli diplomatic corps, which was why she'd come to England to begin with.

Yet it was this very favouritism Hermione found distressing. She was used to being a teacher's pet, but preferred Professor McGonagall's impartial fairness, or Professor Vector's casual assumption. Vector even forgot to give Hermione house points for correct answers sometimes. By contrast, Slughorn seemed to relish bestowing house points on students he liked or who impressed him, and he saw nothing wrong with ignoring the rest - like poor Ron. Although Ron was Ginny's brother and best friend to both herself and Harry, Slughorn often acted as if he didn't _see_ Ron - and perhaps he didn't. He had selective vision. He might not subscribe to an aristocracy, but he did subscribe to a meritocracy, and as far as he was concerned, Ron had no merit.

"Oh, Hermione, it's Gwennog Jones!" Ginny said, clutching Hermione's arm in excitement as they were ushered into Slughorn's private rooms, the spicy smell of apples pervading the air.

"Gwennog who?" Hermione asked.

Ginny popped her on the arm. "Gwennog Jones! Captain and Seeker of the Holyhead Harpies!"

"And this matters because . . . ?" But she was mostly teasing, knowing well Ginny's love for the all-women's team, even over her local Chudley Cannons. Now, of course, she had to listen to it all again as Ginny sung the praises of the Harpies even while hanging back in the crowd around Jones. Ginny could be uncharacteristically shy when faced with a personal hero like Jones, or once, Harry. Compared to Viktor, Hermione found this pro player a bit full of herself, but Hermione was probably the only one present who didn't give two figs for Quidditch - although Blaise Zabini appeared somewhat bored too. Then again, he always appeared bored, so Hermione wasn't sure his expression had anything to do with the choice of dinner guest.

Spotting Hermione and Ginny at the rear of the crowd, and being a good host, Slughorn drew them forward to introduce them. Ginny tried to refrain from gushing, but didn't succeed. Jones ate it up, if kindly, and signed a napkin for Ginny even as she asked Hermione if she followed the Harpies too? Hermione had to reply, "No, I'm sorry. I'm not much of a Quidditch fan, really, and, er, a friend of mine is with Puddlemere United, so I reckon I have to cheer for them." She didn't mention knowing Viktor Krum, who didn't fly for a British team in any case.

"Oliver Wood, right?" Jones asked now. "He was in your house, if I remember."

"Actually, no. Well, I mean, I knew Oliver, yes, but not well. I meant Ed Carpenter."

"Their new reserve Chaser? Oh, good heavens, he's as thick as a brick, that one. But I reckon he's handsome enough to win the female fans." That drew laughter from McLaggen and a couple of the others standing in the circle around Jones.

Hermione resisted bristling even as Slughorn waddled up again, dragging a reluctant-looking Blaise. "Making jokes again, Gwen?"

"Oh, just teasing a bit. Miss . . . Gardener? - no, Granger. She has a crush on a player I know."

"It's not a crush," Hermione corrected, trying not to sound prim. "I happen to be seeing one of Ed's best friends; that's _how_ I know Ed."

Slughorn chuckled and patted the woman's shoulder in a friendly way. "Gwen, Gwen - young Miss Granger here is _Cedric Diggory's _girl. You've heard of the Triwizard Champion, I'm sure? Lucy Malfoy's son? Excuse me, Lucy Diggory these days - old habits die hard." But Hermione didn't think it had been a slip of the tongue; he made it too often. Whatever he thought of Lucius Malfoy, the name itself still carried prestige and he liked to tap into that.

Just now, Jones was looking at Hermione with new respect. "Ambitious and handsome, that one is. Diggory's going places. I wouldn't let him out of your clutches, if I were you."

"I don't plan on it," Hermione said, resisting insult at the older woman's choice of adjectives. Cedric certainly _was_ handsome, and if ambitious wasn't the word she usually associated with him, he was that too. Not ruthless about it perhaps, but he was ambitious, and she was reminded again that the Sorting Hat had offered him Slytherin before Hufflepuff. The older he got, the more comfortable he seemed with that side of himself.

At Slughorn's subtle-not-subtle prompting, Gwennog Jones turned to say something to Blaise Zabini, and Cormac McLaggen took that opportunity to look down his long, straight nose at Hermione. "So you're still seeing Diggory?"

"Yes," she said, adding, "He came to meet me in Hogsmeade on Saturday, in fact," because the frank surprise in McLaggen's voice had annoyed her.

"He did, did he? Well" - McLaggen shot her a smile she assumed he thought looked sexy - "when it's over with him, you come and look me up. At least I can carry your books for you, you won't have to carry mine." He laughed, as if that were funny.

Hermione pursed her lips, but Ginny - not the least shy with somebody not Jones - snapped, "What on earth makes you think Cedric and Hermione will be over any time soon?"

"Oh, Diggory always goes through one girl a year." That nasty, confident smile was back. "I give it until Christmas at most."

"One girl a year?" Hermione asked, astonished. "And you have . . . _what_ for evidence of that? Cho Chang and me? And he's still with me?"

"Oh, for pity's sake! Before Chang, there was Zoë Smythe, and before Smythe, there was Julia Simmons, although I don't think he was sleeping with her. And before her . . . I don't remember, but there was some girl before her, too. Diggory's always had a girlfriend, except maybe his first or second year. He's a lady's man."

Hermione struggled to conceal her shock as Ginny came to her defence once more. "All that proves is that girls like him . . . maybe because he's _nice_?"

McLaggen ignored the jab, shrugging instead. "Every year, a new girl. That's how it's been ever since I've known him - " He cut off as Slughorn called them to be seated for the meal. "Remember that, Granger," McLaggen added. "When it's over, come and look me up, yeah?"

He hurried over to hold the chair for Gwennog Jones, then sat down beside her, all charm and white smiles. Hermione just stood there, shocked. "Come on," Ginny said, tugging at her arm. "And _ignore_ him, you know he's an idiot, and you know Cedric adores you."

"Did he really have those other girlfriends?" she asked. If so, why hadn't he told her about them? He _had _admitted he wasn't a virgin when she'd asked, but he hadn't named names - he was too much the gentleman - and she'd, well, assumed it had been Cho.

"Does it matter?" Ginny asked now. "McLaggen can't stay with the same girl for three months, so he's hardly one to talk! Staying with a girl for a year is a long time, Hermione."

And that was true, at least at their age, but it didn't entirely console her. Why hadn't Cedric mentioned these other girls? She spent the rest of the evening mulling it over, worrying at it like a sore tooth. On the way back to Gryffindor Tower later, Ginny slipped her arm into Hermione's. "You're still obsessing about what McLaggen said, aren't you?"

"I'm not certain I'd say I'm _obsessing_ - " Hermione began.

"You're obsessing," Ginny interrupted. "Don't be silly. I've never heard anything bad about Cedric's reputation with girls until last year and Cho. That's why it was so shocking." Ginny pushed hair out of her face, tucking it behind her ear. "And of course, we both know what went wrong _there_, don't we?" She squeezed Hermione's arm. "McLaggen is just being a git."

Hermione didn't respond immediately, but when they reached the portrait hole, she said, "He's out of school now, working at the ministry." She didn't mean McLaggen. "There are lots of pretty women working there, some closer to his own age."

Ginny rolled her eyes. "Actually, most of them are old enough to be his mother - at least. Now stop it!" They'd entered the common room, and Hermione didn't want to express her doubts there so she gave in to Ginny's admonition. But her mind wasn't entirely eased.

* * *

><p>Even in Britain, one of the bigger Muggle news stories that autumn involved the American presidential elections. Cedric found himself caught up in it despite being neither American nor Muggle, and if Bill Clinton's victory was no surprise, Cedric made certain Scrimgeour was well-informed. Yet it was on 19th November that something more critical happened. Cedric received a phone call a little after five in the morning. With only one phone in the house, it was Bill who got up to answer, then came into Cedric's room carrying the receiver. "It's Hermione's father."<p>

Panicked and fearing that something had happened to her, he took the receiver and put it to his ear. "Hullo?"

"Cedric? Get up and turn on the news. There's been a major fire in the Chunnel ... er, the Channel Tunnel."

He breathed out in relief that it had nothing to do with Hermione, then did as Charles Granger said, wondering what the other man was doing up at that hour - probably had an early surgery. Grabbing his chair, he expanded it then slipped in and rolled out into the living room to turn on the telly. Sure enough, the news was full of the story, although the immediate danger was past by this point. It had occurred before midnight, and the report said seven people were in hospital, but nobody was dead. It hadn't been a passenger train that had caught fire, but a shuttle carrying heavy-goods vehicles. Cedric was rather dubious that Voldemort lay behind it as the shuttle had been coming from the French side, but the resulting chaos was something Voldemort could use.

Dutifully lighting their hearth fire, Cedric woke up the Minister by Floocall. A grumpy looking Scrimgeour in a dressing gown and cap was led into his living room by a house-elf. "Diggory? What the devil happened?"

"There's been a major fire in the Channel Tunnel," Cedric replied, hoping this wouldn't take too long. Getting onto the floor in order to speak to somebody by Floo wasn't easy for him. He had to lie down, being unable to kneel.

"What's a Channel Tunnel?"

"It's a railway that connects Britain to France; it runs under the English Channel." He hadn't known that either beforehand.

"The Muggles have a railway that runs _under_ the sea?"

"That's right."

Scrimgeour shook his head. "What will they think of next? Anyway - a fire, you say? In a long tunnel, that could be - "

"Disastrous, yes. The immediate danger is past, actually; it happened late last night and I didn't hear about it until Hermione's father rang me up a little while ago. I checked the Muggle news and then called you. The train that caught on fire came from the French side, and nobody's dead, so I'm not sure You Know Who was involved - but it is the sort of thing he might try to make use of. A lot of trade will have to go by ferry or airplane until the tunnel's repaired, so the impact on the Muggle economy will be significant - and that, in turn, won't help the current Prime Minister whose party approval rating is, forgive me, in the toilet."

"Point taken, Diggory. I met the Muggle Prime Minister this summer when I took office, talked to him briefly about You Know Who. Nervous man."

Cedric couldn't help smiling. "I doubt news of yet another looming problem would have made him happy. The Grangers expect that a new party will take charge when the Muggles have a General Election next year."

"Hmm. Not what we need right now, instability with the Muggles is just one more opportunity for You Know Who."

"Exactly. I'm sorry to have woken you, sir, but I thought you needed to know about the train, even if Voldemort didn't set that fire."

Scrimgeour had winced. "Diggory, you've got to stop calling him by name."

Cedric wanted to say he refused to be superstitious, but the Minister was already in a bad enough mood. Pulling off his nightcap, Scrimgeour ran a hand through his bushy, grizzled hair. "I'll send some Aurors over there right away, just to be certain there's no Death Eater involvement. Er, where _is_ 'there', by the way? I assume this tunnel has an end point on our side?"

"Folkestone, Kent," Cedric replied promptly.

Scrimgeour nodded. "See you in a few hours, Diggory. Get me as much information as you can on this tunnel. We didn't even know it was there; I wonder if You Know Who knows? We have fly-in detection wards all along the coast, but this tunnel offers a new way to violate the Blegen International Magical-Travel Agreement if wizards can sneak in via a tunnel."

Cedric hadn't considered that. "Yes, sir, it does."

"Good job, good job. Loads of implications for our national security . . . " and he wandered off, mind clearly elsewhere.

Sighing, Cedric pulled himself out of the fireplace and shook ash from his hair. It sounded as if he'd earned his keep again, and with something that had a larger impact than Voldemort.

As he was up, he decided he might as well go into work early to gather the information Scrimgeour wanted. They had another meeting in the late morning that took up all of lunch. After that, Cedric thought he'd earned some time away, so he made a visit to St. Mungo's to see Katie Bell. This was the second time he'd tried. The first time, he'd been turned away at the front desk. He wasn't related to her and with her condition still critical, the staff hadn't been willing to let her receive random visitors, even if he were an old schoolmate. He'd been thinking about it since, and had decided he just wouldn't ask permission this time. He'd spent over a month in the place; he knew it well enough that he could find her without too much trouble. He hoped.

He wasn't sure why he felt a need to do this. He and Katie had talked a few times at Hogwarts, usually about Quidditch, but he knew Angelina better. In fact, Angelina had secured special permission from Katie's parents to visit Katie in hospital, and she brought the rest of their lunch crowd regular reports - so it wasn't as if Cedric didn't know Katie's condition. Nonetheless, he felt a need to come here himself. He'd lain where she lay now. It made him feel a connection to her in a way he wasn't sure Angelina could.

As it turned out, he found her without difficulty. When he arrived on the fourth floor, he waved to the matrons and mediwizards who knew him, smiling and accepting hugs from a few. They all assumed he was there for a checkup of some sort, and didn't question his presence. Katie was in the third ward he checked, the Janus Thickey Ward for permanent brain damage. Did that mean they'd given up on her if she'd been moved in here? It had been less than a month. They hadn't given up on him in that time.

There was nobody around when he arrived so he sat down in the chair beside her bed, studying her face. Her eyes were closed, faint purple bruises beneath. A tiny frown cut her forehead as if even unconscious, she was aware of the pain. He snuck a look at the patient notes at the bottom of her bed, but couldn't make head nor tail of them. He was just putting them back when the door opened and he heard a man's voice say, "What are you doing here - who are you?"

Turning, he found a middle-aged wizard with his wand drawn and trained on him. "I'm Cedric Diggory," he replied. "I came to see Katie."

The man studied his face a moment more, then lowered the wand. He had a cup of tea or something hot in his other hand. Steam wafted from the surface of the liquid. "You look like Lucy," he said and approached the bed, pausing to run a hand over her greasy hair before taking the seat that Cedric had just vacated to read the patient notes. His face was drawn and he clearly hadn't been getting enough sleep.

"You know my mother?"

"Of course I know your mother. We were in the same house. She was a year above me. I'm Jordan Bell, Katie's father." He offered his hand, almost as an afterthought, and not paying any attention to the fact Cedric was on crutches. Cedric shifted his weight to shake the hand.

He didn't know much about the Bell family except that they were filthy rich, counted up there with the Malfoys and Blacks - and like both, pureblood and proud of it. That Jordan Bell had been in Slytherin probably shouldn't have come as a surprise. It was more of one that Katie hadn't been sorted into Slytherin. "How did you get in here?" Mr. Bell asked now. "I thought this ward was off limits to visitors."

"Er - it is. I tried to see her a few weeks ago, but they wouldn't let me." He blushed under the hard look from Katie's father. "I was on this floor last summer myself. So I just . . . came up here. I needed to see how she was."

Mr. Bell was still looking at him. "She's not good," he said bluntly. "They don't know if she'll ever wake again."

"I'm sorry," Cedric blurted, unsure what else _to_ say. He was living proof that dark curses couldn't always be repaired. Mr. Bell took in his crutches, but didn't stand to offer the chair. Either he was too distracted, didn't care enough, or it was a not-so-subtle hint that Cedric wasn't welcome to stay.

"I remember reading about you all last year," he said. "Lucius cursed you."

"Yes, that's right."

"He and Lucy always hated each other." He turned back to focus dully on the bed. "This wasn't supposed to happen to Katie. Your mother set herself against the rest of her family. We thought her quite mad, you know, but she brought it on herself.

"Katie, though" - he reached out to touch her hair - "what did she do? We're not on the Dark Lord's side, my family, not exactly - but we're not on Dumbledore's either. The Dark Lord has some things right when it comes to Muggles. I don't understand why he'd hurt our daughter."

"Voldemort is a megalomaniac," Cedric said, watching the man start at the name and spill a little of his tea. Apparently Jordan Bell didn't realize the degree to which his daughter had sided with Harry Potter. "He doesn't care who he hurts along the way. Katie was just in the wrong place at the wrong time, Mr. Bell."

Her father didn't reply to that. Instead he said, "Don't use the Dark Lord's name casually, you little fool."

"I won't let the fear of a name rule me."

Mr. Bell's smile was bitter. "If you're not afraid, then you're an even bigger idiot than I took you for already. You were extremely fortunate to get out of that graveyard alive, young man. He could have killed you in an instant. Don't mock him."

"I'm not mocking him, but I'm not letting him have control over my life, either. I'll fight him." Mr. Bell just eyed Cedric's crutches, and Cedric set his jaw - angry. He didn't need to be reminded that he couldn't walk and wield a wand at the same time. "There's more than one way to fight back, and if we don't fight, he'll win - and Katie'll be just the first on his casualty list."

"And you think that little speech will make me fall into line behind Dumbledore and Harry Potter?" He almost sneered the names. "What a hopeless idealist you are. I don't care anymore who wins, Diggory. He took my baby from me."

And there spoke despair as much as resentment or bitterness. Cedric could hear in it the echoes of his own resentments and depression last summer. "Katie wouldn't want that," he said softly.

"How do you know what my daughter would want?"

Should he tell her father that she'd been in Harry's D.A.? "I didn't know Katie well, sir - _don't_ know her well." He corrected himself from the past tense. "But I know _she's_ on Harry's side, and Dumbledore's, even if you aren't. She's brave, and willing to take a stand."

"And look where that got her," Mr. Bell snapped. "You can go now, Diggory. Give Lucy my regards." He turned his back on Cedric. After a long pause, Cedric thunked out of the ward, feeling as if he'd lost that round even if he didn't know what he might have said to change Jordan Bell's mind.

He was on his way back downstairs when he heard his name called from behind and turned, half afraid Mr. Bell had reported his unauthorized visit. But it was Healer Grant, the young, blond Curse specialist who'd been one of Cedric's chief Healers the summer before last. He came trotting down the hall, green robes whipping, to join Cedric near the lift. "How are you?"

"I'm doing well," Cedric said, and although Grant hadn't asked, added, "I came to see a friend."

"Er, ah - " Grant seemed oddly nervous. "How are those Muggle treatments going?"

Cedric had, of course, told his Healers about the treatments Hermione's family had arranged for him. He'd had to, in order to get the Ministry to release him from work in the first place. "Fine, I reckon. I got a little control back in my pelvic region. Didn't you get a report from Dr. Guest?"

"Oh, yes, we did. I even arranged to meet her in Muggle London. She offered me a tour of her surgery. Interesting place." Cedric suspected Grant meant 'interesting' in the way one did when saying, 'May you live in interesting times.' Grant cocked his head. "Have you experienced any further improvement?"

"Not really. But nothing's getting worse either, at least - or not that I can tell."

"So there's been no more of those nerve attacks?"

Cedric shook his head and Grant nodded, then frowned. He looked . . . reluctant, but finally said, "The improvement was to a part of your spine that wasn't actually hit by the _curse_. It just suffered collateral damage."

"I know," Cedric said, sensing this was headed somewhere but uncertain where.

"We'll do a full battery of tests when you come for your half-yearly check in December," Grant went on, "but since I saw you here, I thought I'd ask how you are." Cedric nodded. Grant took a breath, then blurted out, "We're not sure this is going to help. I don't . . . I don't mean to be discouraging, and it certainly can't _hurt_ or we wouldn't have let you pursue it - but, well, you suffered a major _curse_, Cedric, not a problem with your body attacking itself. If it were just the latter, I could give you a potion that'd clear it up in about three hours."

"So you've heard of this Guillain-Barré Syndrome?"

"Not by that name, but we understand what they're treating you for. We just . . . " He bit his lower lip. "We were glad to hear of the improvement with your pelvic muscles; it's something we couldn't do. But it may be the most these treatments will manage." He looked apologetic. "At least it's something."

"Yes," Cedric said, unsure how else to reply. Grant was telling him more or less what he'd told Dr. Granger that summer. Ultimately, the treatments wouldn't work because they were treating only his apparent symptoms, not what he actually suffered from. He supposed that if he never got anything more from it than what he'd already achieved, that was something - as Grant had said. "At least I can sit up unaided now."

Grant patted his shoulder. "Well, let's hope it might be more. This has never really been tried before - a comprehensive Muggle treatment in a Muggle hospital applied to heal a curse."

"So I'm a medical curiosity, again?"

Grant's smile was wry. "A politer description might be a trail blazer, yes? If nothing else, this has shown that Muggle treatments can do things we can't, or you wouldn't have control of your pelvic muscles back." He gave Cedric a little nod. "Take care. I'll see you in a month."

That evening at dinner, he told Bill and Fleur about his conversation with Katie Bell's father. "There are several families like the Bells," Bill said. "Even if they're not former Slytherins. They may not be allies of You Know Who, but they are in favour of restricting Muggle influence on the magical world. It's an old struggle. How separate should we really be? And realistically, how separate _can_ we be while we still live cheek-by-jowl with them? Anything new and Muggle is suspect, as if we'll lose our identity and become Muggles ourselves."

"That is silly," Fleur said as she sent a now-empty bowl that had held potatoes back to the sink with a flick of her hand. "Why would we become like the Muggles when we have the magic?"

"They feel outnumbered even while they feel superior," Bill explained to her. "Muggles aren't just different, they're a threat to our way of life." He speared a bite of rosemary chicken. "But they don't want to do anything about it actively, even while they'd be happy for somebody else to do the dirty work for them."

"They are cowards," Fleur said.

"Well, yes - but would you rather them join You Know Who?"

"Of course not! They are still cowards."

Bill just grinned at her but Cedric was frowning down at his plate. "Why are they afraid?" he asked. "I don't understand it." He looked up at them. "I'm not denying they feel that way - I know they do - I just . . . don't understand it."

"That's because you don't think that way to begin with," Bill replied. "You're a glass-half-full sort of person. I'm convinced there are two ways that people respond to something new. Either your natural instinct is to approach and examine it, or your natural instinct is to flinch back and regard it as a potential threat. Unfortunately, I think there are more people who regard it as a potential threat than the reverse. They may pretend they're superior to it, or they claim they're protecting their way of life, but it's coming from the same basic root - fear."

"But _why_?" Cedric replied, frustrated. "That's what I don't get. Why assume something's bad until you know for sure?"

"Experience," Fleur said, and her angel's face was pulled into lines of sadness. "If you have been hurt before, you will learn to distrust. I did not want to come to England, you know - for the Tournament. I did not like you English." Her smile was half impish, half sad. "But more, I was afraid of the new. When you are . . . different . . . when you grow up different . . . you learn to protect yourself. Even among my own at home there was dislike. So I disliked them first." She shrugged. "I still do. This is a hard thing to learn not, yes? Others think they want to be me, but they would not, if they were me."

Bill had reached over to lay a hand on hers in wordless comfort. "So I understand this thinking," she went on. "I understand this fear. Who of us wishes to be turned away from?" She clenched her free fist against her chest. "It hurts, no? So you turn away first or pretend you do not care. And you grow . . . afraid of what you do not know. You learn from what you have lived before. If you have lived with acceptance, you accept. If you have lived with rejection, you reject. It becomes a struggle to live the opposite of what you know, to learn not to fear, to learn not to hurt when you are judged before you are known."

Cedric had set down his fork while she talked, struck as much by her willingness to confide this as by what she'd actually said. Some of these things he'd already guessed about her, but hearing them verbalized helped him to understand. However - "Some of these people, like the Malfoys, really do believe they're better," he said. "It's not just a defence mechanism."

"Oh, but _absolutement_." She slipped her hand free of Bill's and picked up her fork again. "That is real, the feeling superior. I _did_ think myself better than you." She pointed her fork at him. "It takes a long time to see where you are not seeing right, yes? Not until you understand you have been a fool, can you see why you were so." She smiled. "But I still do not like the English cooking, or the English weather."

"You and me both," Cedric replied. They all laughed and it broke the serious mood. And while Cedric understood what Fleur and Bill were saying, it was an intellectual understanding only. In his gut, he still didn't get it and doubted he ever would. Yet he thought Bill might be right that people tended to approach what they didn't know either with curiosity or with fear, and that basic difference informed everything else. If he continued on the path he wanted to walk, working in international relations, he'd have to remember that. He'd have to figure out how to evoke curiosity about the Other, not fear - the politics of hope. The glass was half full.

* * *

><p>Hermione couldn't believe it. She honestly couldn't believe it. Harry had given Ron Felix Felicis. That was <em>cheating<em> - bald cheating! - and if one could hardly say Harry never cheated, he didn't cheat for _this_ sort of thing. In fact, he'd given away his advantage with the dragons two years before in the Triwizard Tournament, or at least had brought Cedric up to speed with the rest of them, because he was fair-minded. She couldn't believe he'd lower himself to cheat for a _school Quidditch game_, even if it was against Slytherin.

Hermione had been so angry with both Harry and Ron that she'd stormed out of the Great Hall - although not before receiving her morning mail. Today was a letter-from-Cedric day and she wasn't about to miss that.

She unfolded his letter as she made her way down to the Pitch. She needed something to cheer her and he began with the usual soppy schmoop, which never failed to make her smile. Even after three months apart they weren't over the "miss you"s and "wish I could touch you"s. But it seemed a bit perfunctory this time, and it took him only a paragraph to get to the meat of things**:**

_Bill, Fleur and I had an interesting conversation at dinner on Tuesday, and I've been thinking about it ever since. While we all know V. keeps and extends his power based on fear, we tend to say it's about Wizarding supremacy. But it's not. I'm convinced it's not; it really is about fear. He uses fear of Muggles to scare up support, then fear of himself to maintain it and suppress any opposition._

_ So far, our resistance to him has been built around that resistance, not around something positive. We need to find something to fight for, not just something to fight against, you see? That's why he makes headway; he has something he's fighting for, or at least that's how he's couching it. But at the root of it, he's also fighting a 'defensive' war and we can use that because he's all about the fear. We need to fight for the opposite - faith and hope. And I don't mean just the hope that we can defeat him, it's bigger than that. It has to be bigger than that._

His writing had grown sloppier as he continued and Hermione knew he was getting carried away by the power of his own vision. She loved this passion he had for things.

_Harry and I discussed what Dumbledore told him about the prophecy - that love is the power Harry has that V. knows not - but personally, I think it's hope. It's faith and friendship and compassion and, yes, love, but love alone can be terribly selfish. Hope and faith seem to me less so. Maybe that's just how I personally interpret the words, but I think hope is the opposite of V.'s fear, not love. And that's what we have to fight for, poppet - hope._

Hermione couldn't resist smiling at that. Cedric and his rhetoric. She'd almost reached the Pitch, although she had to walk more slowly when she was reading in order to avoid tripping, or letting the brisk autumn winds whisk the letter away. She paused long enough to climb up into the stands and take the seat Neville had saved for her. Luna was on Neville's other side, wearing that ridiculous lion-headed hat that roared, but Hermione found she didn't mind it too much. Luna had grown on her in the last year. "Thanks," she told them both as she settled into the seat, pulling her cloak more closely around her against the wind.

"A letter from Cedric?" Luna asked, nodding to the parchment in Hermione's grip.

"Yes," Hermione replied.

"She gets one almost every other day," Lavender said from where she was seated behind them. She was wearing a silly paper crown with _Weasley is Our King _on it in blinking letters. Hermione resisted rolling her eyes.

Luna gave Lavender a beatific smile and said, "Cedric loves her," as if that were explanation enough.

Hermione wanted to hug the breath out of Luna even as Parvati, Lavender and the girls with them snorted giggles. "Love or something!" Romilda Vane crowed, and somebody whose voice Hermione couldn't place added, "Cedric loves that he can get in her knickers is what he loves."

Luna frowned, as if perplexed. "But the fact they're having sex doesn't mean Cedric doesn't love her. Sex is sex, love is love." She said this as if it were self-evident.

And all the girls behind them fell into screaming laughter again. "You ninny - boys use love to get sex!" Romilda told her.

Luna merely shrugged. "Some may. Cedric doesn't."

Poor Neville - stuck in the middle of it all - had turned bright red. "Ignore them, Hermione," he muttered almost too softly to be heard. "They say that because the only sort of boys they can get are the sort they describe." It so reminded her of what Cedric had said to comfort her the previous Christmas when Pansy and Millicent had cornered her on the Hogwarts Express that she hugged him tightly. Then she opened Cedric's letter again, holding it inside her cloak so that the nosey neighbours behind her couldn't read over her shoulder.

_All this started when I went to visit Katie Bell in St. Mungo's on Tuesday. She was unconscious, but her father was there. We had a discussion about V. and what had happened to Katie . . .  
><em>

Hermione blinked down at the letter. He'd gone to visit Katie Bell? Why on earth had he gone to visit her? He didn't know her. Hermione read through the abbreviated summary of his conversation with Bell in a state of confusion, still wondering why he'd gone to St. Mungo's in the first place - which he didn't explain. Instead he returned to his central theme:

_I realized, while talking to Bill and Fleur, that I don't really understand that sort of fear - the fear of the Other. I'd say the fear of Muggles, but it's really just a fear of anything different from what we know, the dismissal of it as lesser so it feels less threatening. When we start to think like that, our circle just gets smaller. Soon it's not only Muggles, but anybody not a pureblood, or anybody not in our house, or anybody not in our own personal circle . . . we saw it at Hogwarts under Umbridge. The politics of fear are the politics of shrinkage._

_ But the politics of hope make the circle bigger until there's just one circle that fits everybody inside. I looked up that little poem your mother quoted to me back in June. It was written by Edwin Markham. 'They drew a circle to shut me out. Heretic, rebel, a thing to flout. But love and I had the wit to win. We drew a circle and brought them in.' That's become my motto, and that's what we're fighting for, Hermione. A circle where not just you and I can stand, but one that includes my parents and yours. One that includes me and my Ojibway friends. One that includes us and our house-elves. It's the opposite of what V. is fighting for. Hope, and bigger circles._

Cedric was, Hermione thought, just a bit of a _preacher_. His own violent conviction in what he said had infused his words with such a rhythmic vigour that it could sweep most anybody along in his enthusiasm. Yet she found herself oddly distracted by the little detail of his trip to see Katie Bell. On the face of it, that was ridiculous. Why shouldn't he go and visit somebody in hospital? It meant nothing. The summer before last, she'd gone to see him in hospital despite knowing him even less well than he knew Katie. True, she'd gone because Harry couldn't, but there had been no ulterior motive behind her trip beyond that. Everything that had sprung up between them had done so after.

_And because of it, _a traitorous part of her mind reminded her. She hadn't felt anything for Cedric except pity when she'd first seen him, but by the end of that week, she'd been half in love with him - and he with her, despite the fact he'd already had a girlfriend.

_Stop it, stop it, stop it! _she scolded herself. He hadn't even spoken to Katie because poor Katie was still unconscious. And if he felt something for Katie already, he certainly wouldn't have been so free about telling Hermione he'd gone to see her -

- but he hadn't told her, had he? He'd gone to see Katie on Tuesday, but he hadn't mentioned it until the letter he wrote yesterday, and then only because it mattered to his little speech about circles and hope. For heaven's sake, he told her what he had for _lunch _some days, why wouldn't he have mentioned that he'd made a special trip to St. Mungo's to visit one of _her_ housemates?

_You're paranoid! _she scolded herself. When had she become like this? She hadn't used to be like this. Was she going to worry over every girl he spoke to? And why? Because stupid Cormac McLaggen had said he found a new girlfriend with each new year? How idiotic. If he'd wanted a new girlfriend, he'd have broken up with her this summer, not clung with both fists and even scraped knuts together to come and see her in Hogsmeade, rent them a room to share for the night. He'd certainly not acted as if he were on the pull for a different girl.

_He wasn't on the pull when he met you_, that traitor-voice whispered, and she wondered if he'd been seeing anybody when he'd first met Cho? McLaggen had named those other girls but Ginny had said he'd had no bad reputation before. Of course while Ginny was typically more in tune with Hogwarts gossip than Hermione, Ginny was also three years below Cedric. Would she necessarily have known what the older students were whispering about him?

And thus did Hermione spend the rest of the game - warring in her own mind. Only Ginny's straight broom-dive for Zacharias Smith in the announcer's booth at the game's end managed to put a temporary grin on her face. Neville noticed and bent over to ask, "You're not still thinking about what those girls said, are you?"

Slipping her arm through his, she squeezed. "No, it's not that." And she smiled at him. After the game, they walked down together towards the changing rooms, Luna trailing after and leaping across little drifts of snow that still clung inside the shadows. Hermione had something she felt compelled to do, but needed to do it without Neville or Luna being a witness.

Fortunately, by the time they'd reached the changing rooms, most of the team was heading out. "Party in the common room!" Dean was shouting, one arm around a triumphant, beaming Ginny. "Party in the common room, everybody!"

"Which common room?" Luna asked. "Yours or _the_ Common Room?"

That gave Dean pause. "Er, well" - he stared at her blue-and-white scarf - "I reckon it could be the Common Room. Doubt Slytherin will want to be seen in there tonight."

Hermione left them to decide the details of their interhouse entertainment, ducking into the changing rooms and hoping Harry and Ron were decent. They were. In fact, both were almost ready to leave. She stopped right in front of them, fiddling with her scarf in her fingers. "Harry, I'd like a word with you." She took a deep breath, then plunged on, "You shouldn't have done it. You heard Slughorn, it's illegal." Then she added, for good measure, "Cedric will be so disappointed in you."

Ron was glowering. "What are you going to do, turn us in?"

Harry was hanging his robes. "What are you two talking about?" he asked, playing innocent.

"You know perfectly well what we're talking about! You spiked Ron's juice with lucky potion at breakfast! Felix Felicis!"

"No, I didn't," Harry said, turning to face them both. He looked . . . rather disturbingly _cheerful_ for having just broken the law.

"Yes you did," she scolded. "That's why everything went right; there were Slytherin players missing and Ron saved everything!"

"But I didn't actually put it in," Harry said, his grin turning positively luminescent. And he held up the little bottle - still full of brilliant golden liquid and the cork still sealed with wax. "I wanted Ron to think I'd done it, so I faked it when I knew you were looking." He glanced at Ron. "You saved everything because you felt lucky, mate. But you did it all yourself."

He pocketed the bottle.

Ron appeared gobsmacked. "There really wasn't anything in my pumpkin juice? But the weather's good . . . and Vaisey couldn't play . . . I honestly haven't been given lucky potion?"

Harry just shook his head, and Ron rounded on Hermione, mocking her in a high sing-song, "_'You added Felix Felicis to Ron's juice this morning, that's why he saved everything!_' See I can save goals without help, Hermione!"

And she felt absolutely terrible. She'd said that without thinking about how it would sound. "I never said you couldn't!" she protested, ignoring that what she'd said had more or less implied that very thing. "Ron, _you_ thought you'd been given it too!"

But Ron wasn't to be fooled and he shoved past her out the door, broomstick gripped tightly in one hand. "Shut it, Hermione. Diggory isn't the only one with talents, you know."

The door was left swinging, and Harry appeared as upset as she was. After a moment, he asked, "Er, ah - shall . . . shall we go up to the party, then?"

But between the letter from Cedric and her worries, and putting her foot in her mouth with Ron, Hermione wasn't in the mood for parties. "You go on," she said, a bit sadly. "I dare say Ron'll have a better time if I'm not there. Oh, and I think they're moving it to the main Common Room instead of the one in our tower so Luna can attend, and maybe some others."

"As long as it's not Zacharias Smith," Harry muttered, propping his broom up on his shoulder. "Stupid git. I hope he spends the night in the infirmary. McGonagall needs to find a better announcer." And he headed out after Ron.

Hermione dragged her feet all the way back to the castle, wanting to be certain everybody was gone from the Gryffindor common room before she arrived. And they were. Mostly. One small first year sat in a corner, reading a book. Hermione didn't know her, just knew she was painfully shy - which seemed like a strange trait for a Gryffindor, but then, so had Neville been at first. She gave the girl a small smile, then settled in beside the fire, unfolding Cedric's letter again to reread it. But a second reading left her feeling no better about his visit to St. Mungo's, no matter how ridiculous she told herself she was being.

Finally unable to remain in the common room worrying it to death, she rose and headed out. Perhaps the party would be busy enough that she wouldn't have to rub elbows with Ron.

So, naturally, she had to run into him as she made her way to the Common Room. She turned a corner and nearly ran down both he and _Lavender Brown_, whom he was pulling along by the hand toward an empty classroom. They were giggling, faces flushed, but both stopped dead in the hallway to stare at Hermione. "I didn't mean what I said earlier," Hermione blurted. "Not like it came out, Ron. You know I think you're a brilliant Keeper."

He snorted and stalked past her, still pulling Lavender behind him. "Save it, Hermione." 

* * *

><strong>Notes:<strong> The exact dates of events from the book depicted in this chapter are uncertain. I've assumed the Hogsmeade visit was at least the second full week of October, and perhaps the third. It then seems to be a couple of weeks before Harry breaks down and puts Dean on his team in place of Katie, but unlike the Lexicon's calendar, I haven't assumed he did so just the Monday or Tuesday before the big Saturday match. In the book, several practices are mentioned, and I don't think even Harry could finagle scheduling the Pitch every single night. Ergo, I'm assuming the Gryffindor-Slytherin game occurred on 23 November after the Channel Tunnel Fire the previous Monday. Jordan Bell and Katie Bell's family history is based on that created for her by Kathryn for the Stoatshead Hill RPG, and is used here with her permission. As for "Healer Grant" (and the rest of Cedric's original team) ... a couple folks have asked, so ... YES ... Healer Haus = Dr. House, and the other three are the original 3 Ducklings from the TV show.


	10. The Slug Club

  
>Old ghosts came back to haunt Cedric in early December. He'd had his third and final of the inaugural IVIg treatments at the end of October, and if he'd experienced no further strides towards improvement, he'd been feeling better overall. Perhaps the Muggles could do what wizards couldn't - if not heal him, then at least keep him from getting worse.<p>Then he suffered a relapse, one of those incapacitating episodes that left him flat on his back in terrific pain. He hadn't endured one since the school year before, and couldn't imagine what had set it off. Work had been no more stressful than usual, which meant Scrimgeour poked and prodded him periodically. But he'd been doing that since Cedric's hiring, and where once Cedric had been frantic over it, fearing he wasn't measuring up, he'd come to understand that it was just Scrimgeour's way. If it were going to bother him, it should have bothered him months ago.<p>

Yet a week into December, he found himself unable to get out of bed for two days, and if the pain wasn't as bad as it could sometimes get, the attack had seemed to stretch. He'd apologized over and over to Fleur and Bill, who'd had to take care of him, until Fleur had threatened to hex his vocal chords if he said, "Sorry," one more time. When he returned to work on Friday, peaked and weak and worried what the Minister would say, nobody said anything at all.

As it was very nearly time for his half-yearly check-up in any case, Cedric made an appointment with his Wizarding healers, Grant and Groat. He didn't tell his mother. He didn't tell Dr. Guest, either. He didn't tell anybody at all except Bill and Fleur, in case they had to come and pick him up, and his secretary, because he had to be out of the office for the afternoon.

Grant and Groat put him through the same battery of tests as twice before, then met with him in Groat's office. "Well?" he asked.

Their faces told him the answer even before they did. "There appears to have been no change," Groat said quietly. "Or rather, no slow-down in the curse's advance, as we'd hoped we might see from these Muggle treatments. It's still progressing. Slowly, as predicted, but progressing."

"And the change I did experience?"

"That, we expect you'll get to keep," Groat said. "It's not an area affected by the actual curse, and seems to have recovered from whatever damage it suffered collaterally."

"But the rest - "

Groat shook his head and Grant ran a hand through his blond hair. "Everything looks exactly the way we'd expect it to, after monitoring you for a year and a half. The change is fairly glacial - which is a good thing - but it's still there, and the time frames we worked out before still appear to apply."

"So I should stop the treatments," Cedric said, trying not to let his face show his disappointment. He hadn't - honestly - expected this to work, not at the beginning. It was just that when he _did_ regain control of his hips, he'd hoped . . .

"I wouldn't yet," Groat said now, a bit unexpectedly. "I admit, if these treatments were going to work, they probably would've already - but that said, they aren't hurting, either, and the Muggle NHS is paying for it. I'd say let them continue at least through the end of June. Then we'll check again. The nervous system can be a strange animal, and yours may take longer to respond."

Grant made a small gesture with his hand. "He's right; it's not hurting you, not aggravating the curse - may even have helped put off the attacks a bit."

"But I had one," Cedric said. "And I wasn't even under any stress."

"Well, yes - they _will_ occur. As we told you last year, stress may set them off, but it's not the only thing causing them. A certain amount of aggravation occurs from the nature of the curse itself, building up, and sets off a physical reaction. I'm actually a bit surprised it's been so long since your last attack. That was, what, last April?"

"May. It was the first week of May." Not long after Hermione had finally lost her virginity, and he wouldn't soon forget _that _date**:** Beltane's Eve.

"That's over six months," Grant pointed out.

"So they'd normally happen more often?"

Lips pursed, Grant shrugged. "That's the hell of it - I'm not sure. I'm basing my predictions on other curses." Grant was a curse specialist, after all. "The trouble here is that the situation at Hogwarts last year aggravated your condition, and now, these Muggle treatments may be easing it. I'd like to see you go for a year without stress beyond the norm and without the treatments either, just to get a baseline, but there's no sense in that for experimental purposes if these treatments really are helping. Not to mention, with the current state of the Wizarding world, 'normal' stress isn't likely."

Cedric could only snort at that, then asked, "But you just said the treatments aren't helping me?"

"They're not _curing_ you," Groat corrected. "But what Jesse described is precisely why we'd like to have you continue them. These nerve attacks do make your condition deteriorate faster, so even if the treatments aren't making you better, they may at least be keeping you from getting worse as rapidly as you might otherwise. It's just hard to tell without that baseline - but I agree, it's not worth having you stop the treatments to get it, at least not yet."

"So what _did_ set off this attack?" Cedric asked.

Both men shrugged. "May not have been any one thing, just a gradual build-up of stress," Groat said.

"Or even a change in the weather," Grant added.

"Not having your girlfriend around . . . " Groat trailed off as Cedric blushed hard and coughed - which made Groat chuckle and Grant smile. "Ho-ho!" Groat crowed. "Well, I didn't mean _that_, specifically, but _that_ certainly could be a contributing factor. Endorphins are natural analgesics and oxytocin facilitates bonding and fear reduction."

Grant just stared at his colleague. "Mind putting that in _Wizarding_ English?"

"Brain chemicals," Groat explained with a grin. "The body releases them at orgasm and they make us feel better - reduce pain and stress."

"You read too many Muggle articles," Grant said, but somewhat fondly. "He _is_ correct, though - sexual activity and orgasm are quite good for the body _however_ one wants to explain it. Wizards and Muggles alike recognize that, and while _personal stimulation _might not be as much fun, it does offer some of the same benefits." He winked.

Cedric snorted. "Did my healers just prescribe _masturbation_ as a treatment option?"

Grant was grinning broadly now. "This one did, at least. I hadn't really thought about it before, but it's actually a rather sound idea, in this situation."

Laughing, Cedric rubbed at his eyes, one elbow on the arm of his chair. "I'll take that under advisement." He didn't add that he and Hermione had guessed already that sexual activity helped, although they hadn't had an explanation. Dropping his hand, he looked up. "So - the consensus seems to be that these treatments aren't actually affecting the curse itself?"

All humour vanished from the other men's faces. "No, it's not. It's treating the symptoms, not the cause, much like the Restituo. That's not to say there are no benefits, but at some point, we'll have to decide if the benefits are worth your time and inconvenience every six to eight weeks. For now, let's track these attacks, see how often they do come, and try to determine what, if anything, might be a trigger. To that end, when you get home tonight, I want you to make a list of everything you ate or did physically - even routine things - this past week, plus anything you might _not_ have done that you usually do . . . if you skipped exercises when you normally do them - anything that could matter. We'll do this every time an attack occurs and look for any patterns that might emerge."

Cedric nodded and the three of them talked a bit more, then he left, a prescription for higher doses of Abdoleo in hand in case he needed them. In general, Dr. Guest's pain cocktail worked better, but it came only at a lower dose and wasn't enough in a crisis, he'd discovered.

He went to bed early that evening, anticipating a bad night, and knocked himself out with the Abdoleo. Fortunately, the next day was a Saturday. When he finally rose, it was almost noon and he told Bill and Fleur what the healers had said - although he edited out the bit about sex. Fleur reached out to squeeze his hand where it lay atop the table. "I am so sorry the treatments are not healing you."

He shrugged and slid his hands free to pick up his coffee mug. "I'm not really surprised. I didn't expect them to. But at least it may be keeping the attacks at bay for longer."

"The new pain medication seems to help more, too," Bill pointed out. "So neither is a miracle cure, but they work together so that you're better off with both than with only one."

Cedric nodded, suddenly thoughtful. It was, he thought, symbolic of what he'd someday like to see - a unification of Muggle and Magical technologies. It was also the opposite of what Voldemort would institute, if he could.

* * *

><p>Occasionally, Cedric's beauty hit Hermione over the head with the force of a hammer. She'd grown used to him, his face familiar and beloved, especially when lit by that fierce grin that looked as if it must hurt his cheeks. She loved him, so he was lovely to her. But he was also a striking man, and every now and then, that fact could still stop her breath in her throat.<p>

It also made her self-conscious because she _wasn't_ a striking woman - well, girl. This assertion wasn't false modesty; she'd never been the sort to bring whistles from the boys. By contrast, Cedric _did_ elicit giggles from the girls for the sort of chiselled good looks that could have graced a Muggle magazine ad. This disparity in their relative appearances worried her, and she knew at least some people who saw them wondered what he was doing with her. If she knew he didn't want a mere arm ornament, what would happen on the day he finally met a girl with both beauty _and_ brains?

She never told him these fears because it just made him angry, as if she were dismissing his sincerity or the depth of his feelings. She wasn't, not really. After everything they'd been through, she didn't doubt that he loved her, but she wasn't a romantic, and it was realism, she thought, not low self-esteem that made her dubious of their future. He might love her now, but people fell out of love as often as they fell into it, and he was bound to meet a woman eventually as intelligent, vibrant and beautiful as he was, somebody truly his equal. She tried to respect herself, believe in her own self-worth, and she did . . . mostly. She was a good feminist's daughter. But she didn't know if her ego could survive if she were dumped for some tall, lithe, brainy beauty. Deep down, she believed Cedric out of her league, and what McLaggen had said to her earlier that term only exacerbated that fear.

Yet when she saw him again, and he smiled down at her in that way he had, she had to pinch herself to remember she wasn't in a fairytale with Prince Charming. Besides, Prince Charming didn't usually arrive on crutches, with his mother in tow and ash in his hair.

Hermione was in Professor McGonagall's study when the Diggorys arrived by Floo, Lucy Diggory first, then Cedric. She was aware of McGonagall telling Mrs. Diggory something as Mrs. Diggory helped Cedric to his feet, but her attention was completely captured by him, her heart beating fast and her knees just a little weak. "Hi," he said softly as he approached to bend and kiss her cheek. "Missed you."

"Missed you too," she whispered back, out of breath as if she'd run all the way up to the professor's rooms. She laid a hand on the breast of his robes, just to touch him, feel him warm and solid under her palm. "The party starts in three hours. Will that be enough time for you?"

He grinned, impish. "It won't take me but fifteen minutes to get dressed, Granger. I thought girls were the ones who had to primp and preen for an hour beforehand?"

She pursed her lips. "I was wondering if you needed to eat or shower, silly. And I'm not the primping and preening sort."

"Thank goodness," he replied, bending to rub the end of his nose against hers in an Eskimo kiss. "And I ate earlier; besides, I reckon there'll be plenty of food tonight. I might take a shower, if there's time - "

"Or a bath," Professor McGonagall said, stepping up beside them to smile into Cedric's face. "We thought it would be simplest if you took the old Head Boy's rooms that you had last year, rather than put you in one of the usual castle guestrooms."

His eyes lit up. "The prefect's bath . . . "

". . . is right next door," she finished, patting his arm. She paused then, eyes flicking from his to Hermione's. "I trust there won't be cause to check the bath later?"

Both of them turned red. "Of course not, professor," Hermione muttered, mortified and resentful that her Head of House had felt the need to ask. Last year had been an extraordinary situation. But she also had to admit the minute McGonagall had mentioned the bath, speculative thoughts had skittered through her head. She wouldn't have gone so far as to spend the night in his room, but she had been thinking about meeting him in the bath.

Cedric's expression was . . . peculiar. "There won't be any need at all," he told McGonagall, yet the _way_ he said it sounded more like a warning off than a promise of anything. "We're both adults here," he added.

McGonagall eyed him, but didn't say anything else, and Mrs. Diggory was stepping past in any case to grip Hermione above the elbow, propelling her out gently behind two small, Levitated trunks. To Cedric, she said, "I trust that you can find your old rooms alone? I have business with Hermione."

She did? Hermione suppressed a little squeak of concern. Although she got on rather well with Cedric's mother, Mrs. Diggory could still intimidate, especially when using words like "business" in that tone of voice. But she went meekly up two floors to a section of the castle she'd first seen only last year when Mrs. Diggory had brought the Cernunnos painting. Tonight, most of the guest rooms seemed to be occupied, no doubt with others come for Slughorn's Christmas bash. Mrs. Diggory tapped her wand on one of the doors, then sent her trunks inside and gestured for Hermione to precede her. The room wasn't large, but had a private shower, toilet, and large bed as well as a sizable wardrobe. "What did you want to talk about?" she asked Cedric's mother.

"Talk about?" Mrs. Diggory appeared surprised, then chuckled and shook her head, no longer looking frightful at all. "I wasn't dragging you off to have a _chat_, Hermione - or not like you feared, apparently." Opening one of the two trunks, she pulled out a brown-wrapped parcel and offered it up. "I just have an early Christmas present for you. I think you might find use for these tonight, but even more so over the holidays. Rufus Scrimgeour will be hosting a New Year's Eve party. The Minister always does - it's quite the event of the season, with everybody who's anybody in the British Wizarding world in attendance. His staff is always invited - and that means Cedric will be going. He'll be expected to bring a date."

"Oh," Hermione said, and a flutter of anxiety settled in her stomach as she unwrapped the box. Inside lay a set of crimson dress robes. Hermione's mouth dropped open. "_Oh,_" she said again, stroking soft crushed-velvet. "These are . . . gorgeous." And no doubt very expensive, which she wasn't at all certain the Diggorys could afford these days. "You didn't - you gave me two sets of new robes last year," she said. "Not that I'm not grateful for these, but - "

"I didn't give you _new_ robes, Hermione, I gave you robes that were fifteen years out of fashion. They'd do in a pinch, or for something like tonight - but they won't be suitable for the Minister's New Year's Eve party." She lifted the outfit free and handed it to Hermione. "Try them on."

"What if they don't fit?"

"That's what alteration charms are for," Mrs. Diggory replied. "They'll have to be hemmed for certain, but your mother helped me shop, so between us, I think we managed to get something that should fit you otherwise. Shoo." She gestured Hermione towards the bathroom.

Inside, Hermione shook out the robes to look at them under the brighter lights, realizing that what she held wasn't a girl's debutante dress, but a young woman's evening gown. Mrs. Diggory and her mother had picked _these_? Stripping out of her school robes, she stepped into the floor-length, flounced skirt and pulled it up. The simple, fitted front covered her snugly from a darted waist to the collar circling her neck, which flared upward like something from the 1600s. But the rest of the gown confounded her. Sleeve cuffs attached to rather a lot of shimmering gold gauze, some of which was sewn to the front where sleeves should go - but the gown was missing shoulders and a _back_, and she couldn't figure out what to do with the beaded strings attached to the sleeves and other trailing fabric.

Giving up finally, she opened the door and tentatively emerged, the long skirt sweeping the floor. It would definitely need to be hemmed. "Ah . . . I'm not sure how to get the rest of it on."

Mrs. Diggory laughed, but gently. "It is rather confusing, and you'd need some help with the back in any case. Come here." Hermione obeyed and let Mrs. Diggory snap the cuffs around her wrists, button a few buttons on the sleeves, then clip something to the collar. "There," she said, tweaking fabric. Then she drew Hermione over to the long mirror on the wall and half turned her so she could see her back. "What do you think?"

Hermione blinked. It was unexpectedly . . . sexy. But elegant. The beaded strings had turned out to be straps. One rose from the underside of each armpit, buttoning to the collar and creating the sleeve rear; the sleeves were split on top with only a set of buttons above her elbows and at mid-upper arm holding them, making delicate gold drapes in contrast to the rich crushed velvet of the skirt and bodice. Another glittering pair of straps went directly up her spine to attach to the back of the collar. They held a drifting cape that fell from her hips to the floor, but left her back bare from the tops of her shoulders to the curve of her waist. "Wow," she said. "I look . . . like a grown-up." A movie star, even - or high-priced call girl. Or Vampirella. She'd have snickered, except the gown was really too pretty to be compared to bad Hollywood horror costumes.

Mrs. Diggory was smiling. "Perfect. Now - " and she went back to the trunk, removing a pair of strappy gold shoes with clear heels. "These might require an enlarging charm. Your mother remembered your size, but even in the right size, not every shoe works."

Hermione blinked. "I feel like Cinderella." Sitting down on the bed, she took the shoes to put them on, but was startled by the weight. "They're real _glass_!" Not polyurethane plastic.

"Of course, dear."

"But . . . what if I crack them or something?"

Mrs. Diggory appeared surprised. "They have a breakage protection charm, of course."

"Oh, er - right." She could still forget about magic, six years later.

Once the shoes were on, she stood - carefully. These were possibly the highest heels she'd ever worn in her life. Looking at herself in the mirror, she couldn't help the little grin that tugged at her lips. Even without her hair done or makeup, she looked . . . almost beautiful. At least she thought so until Mrs. Diggory stepped up behind her, then the smile faded.

"What is it?" Mrs. Diggory asked. Hermione wished the older woman was a bit less observant.

"Nothing," she lied.

"You were smiling like the cat who'd caught the canary one moment, then looking crushed the next - hardly nothing, Hermione."

Hermione shook her head, uncertain how even to explain. Mrs. Diggory just waited her out. "I feel like an impostor in these robes," she said finally.

"Why?"

"They're fit for a princess."

Mrs. Diggory's eyebrow hiked and her lips pursed. "Are you worried that people will look down on you as a Muggle-born?"

Her own eyebrows lifted. "Not . . . not exactly. I mean, no, that wasn't really it."

"Then what was it?"

"I, er . . . I'm not precisely princess material. And I don't mean in terms of blood purity, or class." She looked down, but again, Mrs. Diggory didn't reply, just waited for her to explain herself. "I'm not pretty - not like you, not naturally. Not like Cedric, either."

Sudden understanding washed over Lucy Diggory's face. She pulled around a chair from the dressing table and sat down, studying Hermione where she still stood, back to the mirror. "You think I'm pretty?"

"Well, yes - of course. You're . . . you're poised, and graceful, and you have such nice hair - "

"And I'm too tall for a woman, mannish in feature, have no curve to my figure, and my hair is spell-blond, Hermione. Look again." Mrs. Diggory stood and held out her arms, inviting critical inspection.

Hermione blinked and - after a moment - could see exactly what Mrs. Diggory meant. The older woman _was _exceptionally tall, almost as tall as her son, which meant she could look most men in the eye and actually topped her husband by a few inches. She didn't have a figure either, her chest nearly flat and her waist dropping straight to narrow hips. It would have been a good figure for a model, perhaps, but it didn't look feminine. And her features - they _were_ just a little mannish, with a square jaw and strong cleft chin. And there was something slightly . . . coarse . . . about her large-boned hands. Hermione had never before noticed these things because Mrs. Diggory always moved with such grace. Yet like a Rubin vase-profile, now that a new shape had been pointed out to her, she couldn't help but see it.

"When I was your age, Hermione, the running joke in my house was that I performed sex-change spells every morning in the loo. The fact I had more balls than most of the boys in my year probably didn't help." Her smile was slightly vicious.

It made Hermione laugh, even while she also felt quietly horrified. "They called me - well, _call_ me - the frizzy-haired, buck-toothed bookworm," she offered to even the scales.

"We all see our own flaws most clearly, don't we? You think I'm pretty, but that's not what I see when I look in the mirror. As for the poised part - that can be learned. I had etiquette and decorum beaten into my head almost before I could walk. Perhaps that's why I rebelled and insisted on coming to dinner with paint still beneath my nails." She raised her hand and, indeed, there was paint beneath her short nails.

"But Cedric - " Hermione began.

"What about him?"

"He's . . . he's . . . well, there's not a lot of comparison between us."

Mrs. Diggory shook her head. "You see him through rose-colored glasses. My son is quite handsome, to be sure. My features do look better on a man than a woman, and he inherited them. But if you take time to notice, he's also just a bit . . . odd looking. His face is unusually flat, his teeth aren't even, his eyebrows are too heavy, and his nose is crooked."

Hermione blinked yet again. She'd noticed those things of course, but found them endearing idiosyncrasies, not flaws. "He's got a few peculiarities, but he's still striking. And I like his eyebrows," she added defensively.

Mrs. Diggory chuckled at that. "He _is_ striking, even beautiful, but he's no insipid Adonis without character to his face. Character arises from _flaws_, Hermione - in our personality, and in our looks. It's these 'flaws' that we learn to live with, and which make us unique. As an artist, it's the _flaws_ I've come to cherish reproducing. Every wrinkle, every mole, every freckle, every oddly shaped ear or weak chin - these are what make us individuals. You love my son so you don't see his flaws as problems, do you? You see them as 'peculiarities.' Yet you worry there isn't any comparison between you and him? Hermione, you're a lovely young lady. You call your hair 'frizzy,' but I call it curly. You say you have buck teeth, but I don't see that - "

"Well, er, I sort of fixed my teeth. A few years ago. A shrinking spell."

That made Mrs. Diggory smile. "Just so. Like I fixed my hair."

"It's not blond normally? I just, well, assumed maybe you touched up the grey."

"It's Cedric's colour naturally - not quite brown, not quite blond. I heightened the highlights." She sat back down. "Spells are wonderful things. Don't be afraid to use them." She let her eyes drift critically over Hermione. "What I see when I look at you is a young woman of normal height with curves in the right places to make the boys' eyes drift down. You have a sweet face, lovely dark eyes and hair that, styled well, some women spend far too much money to recreate with curling charms."

Hermione looked down at herself. "I feel plain."

"You're not. You're normal - which means you have a face made up of good features and bad. But it's _your_ face, and unique, and those who care for you - such as my son - find it dear." She tilted her head. "Cedric thinks you beautiful, Hermione. Trust me on that. More to the point, he adores you. That's _why_ he finds you beautiful."

"But one day, he'll stop," she blurted, her earlier fears bubbling back to the surface. "One day, that'll wear off. And okay, I know that he likes clever girls. He's said so and, well, there's plenty of evidence he does. But one day, he's going to meet a clever girl who's as beautiful as he is."

Mrs. Diggory just stared at Hermione for a long moment until Hermione dropped her eyes, recalling abruptly that she was talking to Cedric's _mother_, voicing doubts about his constancy. "Do you really think that's how the story goes?" Mrs. Diggory asked.

Unable to lift her eyes, Hermione felt frozen, unable either to nod or shake her head. The pause stretched - broke. "All the stories are about beautiful women falling for the monster or the geek or the ugly man," she blurted. "King Kong gets the girl, or the Hunchback of Notre Dame does, or the Phantom of the Opera. Muggle movies make oodles of money off that stuff - the hairy, overweight, not-very-handsome man wins the pretty, willowy woman. The only times a swot girl gets the boy, she turns out to be Cinderella in disguise. Women know how to look past appearances . . . " She didn't finish that sentence. The corollary was apparent.

Abruptly, Mrs. Diggory rose and walked over to her, reaching out to tilt up her chin. "First, you must be certain you have the correct story. You are not Cinderella. Nor are you the ugly girl. I just pointed out that you're a lovely - if normal-looking - young woman. You aren't perfect, no. But you're far from horrid. And you have been blessed with more than your share of intellectual brilliance - "

"Like the boys ever want _that _- "

"My _son_ does. Was there another boy you were worried about?"

Hermione had the good grace to blush.

"Now listen to me, Hermione." Mrs. Diggory released her chin. "The story that I see here is far better than any fairytale. We have a talented, sometimes aloof young man struck by a terrible tragedy, and a brilliant young woman who was more lonely than even she realized, and so recognized loneliness in another - reaching out. That's a lovely story . . . but it has nothing to do with Cinderella. It's far more real. Cinderella and her prince may have lived happily ever after, but we really don't know, do we? Who tells that part of the story? But that's the _interesting_ part - or it would be if Cinderella and her prince had any personality to speak of.

"My son needs a girl with a brain and some ambition of her own - somebody who won't be churned up beneath _his_ ambition, because he has it. He's only beginning to realize just how much. He doesn't need somebody of the ordinary sort, but someone extraordinary who can match him intellectually but doesn't feel a need to compete with him. He loses badly. It's not necessary to compete to hold your own. He wants a companion to walk beside him. That, Hermione, is a _love_ story, not a romance. Cinderella is just a romance."

Hermione listened to all this with great astonishment, and swallowed. "I'm sorry."

"For what?" Mrs. Diggory seemed genuinely curious.

"I . . . don't know." And she realized she didn't know, not exactly.

"Women learn to say those words too readily - we're 'sorry' for everything. It's always our fault, even when it's not. Stop it. If you've anything to apologize for, it's for paying too much attention to the fairytale and looking for Prince Charming. But that's not entirely your fault. I lay that at the feet of our foolish society - both magical and Muggle. Now listen to me. There are no Prince Charmings, and there are no Princesses. Sometimes it's entertaining to play dress up and look our best, but beneath the fancy fabrics beat real hearts. Young men resent being asked to be Prince Charming just as much as young women resent the men who want only a Princess - and even princes and princesses shit and belch and pick their noses when people aren't looking."

Hermione burst out laughing at that; she couldn't help it.

Smile wry but eyes serious, Mrs. Diggory went on, "Cedric's a good boy, and a born romantic - but he's still a man. He'll forget to tell you he loves you, just assume you know. He'll forget your anniversary, and your birthday. Sometimes he'll just want sex, not romance, and sometimes he'll take you for granted. Ironically, that's when you'll know he truly loves you - because he's certain of you. And whilst it's _not_ true of all men, it is true of Cedric that his heart is constant and he's happiest when he knows he can get a kiss without working for it. He may like the challenge, but ultimately, he likes comfort better. He'll take care of you till the day you die, and he'll let you take care of him. And that's love."

Hermione wasn't sure how to respond, so she just dropped her eyes. After a moment, Mrs. Diggory patted her shoulder. "Now, let's do up that hem." And wand out, she knelt in front of Hermione, turning up the unfinished bottom of the robes.

* * *

><p>Cedric did take a bath, a rather long one, revelling in the steamy heat and freedom of movement in the water. He'd nearly forgotten how lovely it was to <em>swim<em>. Finally dragging himself out and feeling like an eagle jessed, he made his way back into the bathroom where he shaved and used a smoothing spell before applying a bit of gel to his hair so it maintained a casual disarray. His mother had warned him to look his best tonight or he'd be completely upstaged by his date. In truth, he didn't mind a bit of upstaging; let her knockout her schoolmates and he'd enjoy their envious glances because she'd be on _his_ arm - well, figuratively. He knew that possessiveness was rather Neanderthal, but sometimes he felt insecure enough to flaunt his success. He might be on crutches, but _he_ was seeing the cleverest witch at Hogwarts - and sleeping with her too.

Despite his mother's warning, he wasn't prepared for just how upstaged he might be. A knock came on the door a little before the party was to begin, but of course, one didn't want to arrive precisely on time. He called for whoever it was to come in, and his mother - dressed in her signature violet - opened the door, but more like the handmaiden before the lady.

A scarlet vision entered behind. Hermione was exquisite. Utterly exquisite. He thought perhaps he could be forgiven hyperbole when he was so _completely_ gobsmacked. His heart stuttered and his tongue clove to the roof of his mouth. He stood frozen in place on the crutches. His mother's art had taken on life, moving and breathing and shimmering from her spell-glittered hair and smoky dark eyes to her rich velvet hem. She was wearing his pearls.

So he did what any gentleman would do. He gave her a deep bow, or as good a one as he could approximate. It made her giggle, and she looked adorably embarrassed . . . and far more like his Hermione, which gave him back to himself. He remembered how to breathe normally and even managed a wide smile instead of just a gape-mouthed stare. "You're beautiful," he told her as she moved over to him. The adjective seemed inadequate.

"Thank you," she said. "You're none too shabby yourself."

"Turn around," his mother told her, and after a glance sideways, Hermione did so . . . showing an unexpected expanse of pale flesh highlighted by glittering ruby straps and faint gold dust. His mouth went dry again but it wasn't just aesthetic appreciation. Her lovely bare back elicited rigid attention below his belt too. All he could think was that he wanted to get his hands on her skin, and his mother was watching him, apparently amused. "I think it will be a success," she said, mostly to herself.

That was when he noticed she was carrying a camera. "You're taking pictures?"

"Indeed," she said. "But because I plan to paint you."

"Paint us?" Hermione asked, half spinning, face alarmed. She hadn't forgotten last year.

His mother rolled her eyes. "Not like that, Hermione. A simple portrait, nothing unusual."

"Oh." Hermione appeared mollified, and blushed.

"Although," his mother added, "I know exactly the pose I want." Of course she did; she always did. Setting aside the camera, she came forward to Cedric and he let her position him in front of and slightly to the side of the fireplace, his feet planted well apart, his crutches extended so that he could stand as close to straight as he could manage these days.

"Can't we, er, paint out the crutches?" he asked her - pleaded really.

"Absolutely not, Cedric. This will be a portrait, and like Lysippos, I will show you as you truly are, not just as you seem - or want to seem. Your _ethos_ and your _aretê _- your character and your courage. Naturally the crutches will be in the portrait." She turned and held out a hand. "Now Hermione."

Hermione approached and started to take a position beside him, her arm around his waist, but his mother stopped her. "Oh, heavens no - none of that standard stiff rigidity. Here." She turned Hermione so she was facing Cedric and pushed her closer. "Put your right hand on his shoulder" - she placed it where she wanted it - "and slip your left arm around his torso - oh, for heaven sake, Hermione, he's your lover! Hold onto him like he is! I don't want to see firelight between your bodies."

Hermione was blushing, but obediently adjusted her stance until he could feel her soft breasts pushed up against his chest. "This feels silly," she muttered.

"It won't look silly. Trust me. Now, Cedric, let Hermione help balance you. Put your weight on your left arm and slip your right arm around her so your hand is at the small of her back, under the cape straps."

His mother was trying to kill him, and not by asking him to balance on one crutch. The heat of Hermione pressed to his front and her soft skin beneath his palm was sending him straight into cardiac arrest. His mother removed the dangling crutch as he looked down into Hermione's face, the dark-dark eyes outlined by kohl and fudge browns. Her lips were berry red. "You're beautiful," he whispered again.

"That's right," he heard his mother mutter. "That's it. The power of _passion_ - show it to me."

The flash of light bulbs would have blinded him if he'd been looking up, but he wasn't. He might have been self-conscious - probably should have been - but a lifetime of being her model had inured him and he was able to pull Hermione into his private bubble. She gazed up in something he'd have called adoration if he'd been less fearful of hubris. Her eyes were liquid, shimmering in the light of the candelabra chandelier and the hearth. He bent his head, caught in that gaze like a fly in the spider's web, but willing, willing. He could feel the blood rushing all through him, hot and making him sweat. More flashes said his mother had taken more pictures. He knew her posing of them would work brilliantly, showing the gorgeous back of Hermione's dress rather than the demure front, and even though portraits tended to move around, they still had a basic default pose. Nonetheless, Cedric found it amusing that his mother wanted to paint them _this_ way, not in something more characteristic. They wouldn't be remembered as the Triwizard Champion and his brilliant girlfriend, or even as the former Head Boy and a Gryffindor prefect, despite the setting of the Head Boy suite. They'd be remembered as young lovers - the Summer King and his Ceridwyn still.

He rather liked that.

Finally, she released them. "Run along," she told them. "I need to put these things away first. Tell Horace that I'll be there shortly."

"Yes, mum," Cedric said, kissing her cheek.

Slughorn's study wasn't that far away, relatively, but they still had to pass several students in the hallway. Hermione garnered more second-glances than Cedric, who was rather enjoying the attention - because it wasn't aimed at him. Hermione seemed flustered. "I assume Harry couldn't wiggle out of this one?" Cedric asked her.

"Nope," she said, half-grinning. "He's quite looking forward to seeing you, you know."

"Likewise," Cedric replied.

"He's escorting Luna Lovegood - as friends," Hermione added.

Cedric stopped dead in the hallway. "Luna? He's taking _Luna_? That's - " He halted at her glare. "I didn't mean it like _that_!" he defended, although actually he had, just a bit.

He suspected she knew it too, given her slit-eyed, dubious expression, but she didn't call him on it. "He asked her yesterday; Peeves overheard so everybody else heard, too, within the hour. Ginny says that Luna's terribly excited."

Cedric found himself smiling. "I'm glad she's getting to go. I was just . . . surprised."

"Mmm," Hermione replied noncommittally.

"What? I like Luna." They'd almost arrived at Slughorn's door. Music, laughter, and loud conversation could be heard on the other side, even in the hallway.

One brow arched, Hermione turned to face him. "I know you do. But there's a bit of patronizing about it."

"She's four years younger than me, Hermione. I think I'm allowed to be a little patronizing. It's not of a bad sort. Besides, you can't tell me you don't sometimes think she's off her rocker too."

Hermione's shoulders slumped slightly. "I admit it. It's just . . . the way boys . . . " She sighed in an explosive gust and gave a little hopeless lift of her hands. "Never mind. It doesn't make any sense."

Frowning, he stepped closer, ignoring a pair of party-goers who'd arrived just after them - and who were staring at Hermione in her finery, then at him in his dress robes. "I think we're overdressed," Hermione muttered.

He jerked his head to the side, over towards a crenellation in the wall where they could speak more privately. She followed. "We are overdressed, but it's all right. And" - he made an intentional glance over her shoulder at her back - "I'm enjoying the view. Some of the other adults will dress up, you'll see. But what's bothering you?" He frowned down again, gently.

"It's _nothing_ - "

"It's not nothing."

"You sound like your mum. I'm just . . . on edge. It's been a hard term given everything, and with people talking . . . " _People 'talking'? _ Yet she didn't give him a chance to ask before she continued, "I worry about you out there. And what happened to Katie - " She stopped abruptly and took a deep breath, looking up at him. Her damp eyes were close to spilling over, and he bent to kiss her, lightly, so he wouldn't smudge her lipstick (or get it on him). She gave him a smile. "Tonight, I just . . . I want to go to a party and not think about everything else going on."

He nodded. "Then we will. Let's go, so I can show off my lovely date."

She laughed and shook her head, but moved with him towards Slughorn's door again, her hand fisted in the back of his robes like she used to do.

Once inside, the noise rolled over them both, and Slughorn must have used Enlarging Charms on his study, or had asked Flitwick to. Even with them, the place was packed and stuffy, which the colourful jewel-tone draperies on the walls didn't help. A Fairy Chandelier hung from the ceiling centre, casting bright red-and-gold light over greenery and baubles, while lute music drifted from one corner. A blue haze of pipe smoke hung just below the ceiling like ominous rain clouds.

Slughorn spotted them immediately, and a loud "Oh, ho!" cut across the buzz of conversation and music as he sailed towards them like the_ QE2_. "Mr. Diggory and the lovely Miss Granger - well, aren't you a sight to behold tonight!" Taking her hand, he kissed the knuckles, making Hermione laugh, which in turn made Cedric smile. Then he pulled them deeper into the crowd, saying softly in her ear, "That is a Dorothy Dimble Original, or my name isn't Horace Slughorn. I heard dear Lucy had agreed to do a series of fashion sketches for Dimble's spring show and could scarcely imagine why, but all is now revealed. I expect I know what _you'll_ be wearing to the Minister's New Year's Party, eh?" He winked at Hermione, as if to say he was in on the secret.

Cedric just wanted to sink into the floor as the look on Hermione's face boded ill. "I . . . er, urm - I suppose?" she said.

Grinning, Slughorn just patted her hand. "You look absolutely gorgeous, and I'm sure Dorothy won't mind a set of her dress robes shown off at such a prestigious event on such a lovely lady. Where is Lucy, by-the-by?" He looked from Cedric to Hermione. "I thought she was coming?"

"She is," Cedric said quickly. "She just had a few things to wrap up. She'll be along presently."

"Yes, yes - there was never any rushing Lucretia. She'll be sure to make an entrance." And spotting somebody else, he waved airily and waddled away.

Cedric was only half relieved, as Hermione turned to him and hissed, "What is he talking about? He made it sound like I'm wearing an Armani gown!"

Cedric bent to whisper, "Not sure what an Armani gown is, but Dimble robes . . . er, let's just say the likes of Narcissa Malfoy patronizes her for eveningwear."

Hermione's face was bright red now. "Oh, my goodness. I knew . . . well, I suspected they were, ah, expensive, but I never - Cedric! I can't take these as a Christmas present! I can't let your mother sell her talent for such a petty cause. I suppose that's what Professor Slughorn meant - "

"Yes, you can and you will," he ordered in a whisper. "It would be . . . you'd _humiliate_ her if you tried to give them back!"

"I didn't mean that!"

"I know, but Granger . . . Hermione - it was obviously important to her. She's been talking about the Minister's party for weeks." He squeezed his eyes shut. His mother knew how much his job at the Ministry mattered to him, but he didn't want to tell Hermione she'd been set up as his bragging rights. He wasn't even certain she had been. "The Minister's party will be full of purebloods; she's determined to dress you up to match any of them."

"Like Eliza Doolittle," Hermione muttered, sounding furious. "And she told me she took my mother shopping for these, not that they were . . . were . . . an _original_ anything!"

"They may not be," he said. "That's just Slughorn. He likes to pretend he knows more than he does." He let his puzzlement take over then. "Who's Eliza Doolittle?"

Hermione's sigh was prim and long-suffering. "She's a character in a play by George Bernard Shaw - 'Pygmalion' - about this professor who, on a bet with a friend, takes a Cockney girl and trains her up to pass for a society lady. It's rather . . . insulting, really. Although in the end, she tells him to take a flying leap and marries somebody who respects her."

And that took Cedric momentarily aback. Did Hermione somehow fear he didn't respect her? Or that his family didn't? "Mum's not insulting you, Granger. She just wants to make a point."

"What? That pigs can be taught to waltz?"

"Don't insult my mother either!" Cedric snapped. Hermione had the good grace to blush. "And don't insult yourself. You're hardly a dressed up _pig_. Her point is that you're not lesser than anybody else who'll be at the Minister's party."

She nodded, reaching out with tentative fingers to tangle in the sleeve of his dress robes. "Sorry. I just . . . I feel . . . "

"I know." He repositioned his weight to free one arm so he could slide his hand up her back, trying to offer comfort. It distressed him how anxious she got about the blood-purity thing, and sometimes he wasn't sure what to say. If he tried to dismiss it, he sounded equally dismissive of her insecurities, but if he told her it didn't matter to him, he feared she'd think him insincere. But it _didn't_ matter to him; it never had. He just wished it didn't matter to _her_. "Look at it this way, poppet - Umbridge will be there. Wait till she sees you in _that_." He nodded at her to indicate her robes. "She might suffer apoplexy."

Hermione laughed, and the tension broke. They went out then to mingle appropriately, taking some time to nibble on the excellent appetizers (Slughorn had spared no expense on food). But eating required a Hover Spell to carry his plate, as he couldn't stand on the crutches and hold crockery too. Harry found them quickly, dragging Luna in his wake. She wore dress robes of silver with iridescent spangles - more flashy than elegant - but somehow they suited her thanks to her pale-pale hair and skin and eyes. "You look lovely," Cedric told her, which brought a luminescent smile to her lips.

"I made them myself! Not for the party, of course. I didn't know I'd be going to the party until yesterday. I just liked the idea."

"You sewed your own robes?" Hermione asked, surprised.

"Oh, yes. I like to design things."

"Luna has a creative streak," Cedric said - which could be taken a variety of ways, but at least some of them were complimentary. Harry appeared as if he were struggling not to laugh.

"There's a vampire here," he said instead, which immediately got Hermione's attention. "We met him a little while ago. He came with one of Slughorn's old students who was blathering on about wanting to write my biography!" Harry rolled his eyes. "The student, Somebody Worple, not the vampire, I mean."

"Eldred Worple," Cedric said. "He wrote _Blood Brothers_, about living among the vampires. Rather interesting, really - better than I expected - although it's still rather depressingly, 'See how the barbaric Other lives!' Like putting them in a zoo." He took a sip of wine.

"Well, they are _vampires_, aren't they?" Harry asked. "They eat people."

"So do werewolves. And most vampires didn't ask to be vampires anymore than werewolves asked to be werewolves."

Hermione got a sudden speculative look in her eye and craned her neck to see. "I wonder what he thinks of Umbridge's new legislation? It's not just werewolves it discriminates against."

Harry was eying them both as if he feared they were about to stage a demonstration of some sort when Luna piped up with, "The vampire isn't Minister Scrimgeour. He was introduced as Sanguine. He looked rather bored, poor man."

Cedric choked on his wine. "_Scrimgeour_? What makes you think Scrimgeour is -"

"Oh, Father wrote an article all about it when Scrimgeour first took office but was prevented from publishing by the Ministry. They don't want it to get out, you know."

Handing Hermione his glass, Cedric reached up to rub between his brows, his crutch dangling. Sometimes it was easier to ignore Luna's theories - or rather Xenophilus Lovegood's theories as parroted by Luna - but this went too far. "Luna, I work for the Minister. I see him on a daily basis, or nearly. He's not a vampire."

"Well, they want to cover it up - "

"No, Luna. He's not. I know enough to tell." She frowned, clearly disturbed by the fact he was contradicting her beloved father, and both Harry and Hermione squirmed, uncomfortable. Cedric reached out to lay his free hand on her shoulder. "He's not, okay? I wouldn't lie to you, and I wouldn't cover it up. Now stop repeating that before it gets you into real trouble, all right? I don't want anything to backfire on you. Maybe your father was . . . told incorrect information."

He could feel Luna tense under his hand, struggling with it, then she relaxed and smiled up at him. "I know you believe what you say, Cedric. And you're worried for me. I'll be careful who I tell about it."

Resisting a frustrated sigh, he let it go. Sometimes, that sort of answer was the best he could hope for, but he feared that someday, it would get her or her father into serious hot water.

His mother arrived half an hour after he and Hermione, and he suspected she'd waited in part to give the two of them time to make their own entrance before she stole their thunder . . . because of course she did. Lucretia Diggory, Master Painter, appearing at Slughorn's Christmas party was quite the social coup - if not on a par with 'The Boy Who Lived.' Yet while it might have looked like an 'everybody who's anybody' affair here tonight, Cedric recognized that the non-Hogwarts guests belonged to the entertainment community - Worple the biographer, two members of the Weird Sisters, Gwennog Jones the Seeker, master lutist Benjamin O'Dell, his own mother . . . The more liberal fringe. Cedric found it telling. Aside from himself and a trio of warlocks in the corner who he thought worked for the Transportation Division, there wasn't another Ministry employee to be seen. Slughorn might be pretending to his old connections, but clearly his status was slipping. Cedric whispered to his mother at one point, "You notice there's not really anybody all that influential here?"

"I did notice that, yes. Not a terribly good sign for Dumbledore's faction."

"No," he agreed. "Are Hermione's robes really Dimble?"

His mother's smile showed her dimples as she sipped wine. "They are."

"What did you promise Madam Dimble? Those are too - "

"Nothing much, Cedric. I hardly sold my soul. She wanted sketches for some hanging tapestries for her spring show. She's got a new 'Mythic' collection coming out." Of course, his mother's connection to mythic subjects was well known. "I wasn't terribly interested, but she offered a fair price." And he knew, these days, their family couldn't afford to be too choosey. "I asked her to throw in a set of robes and explained it was for your date to the Minister's New Year's Eve party. She decided the Triwizard Champion's companion dressed in her stock was sufficient publicity to add them to the contract. So Helen and I went down to her workshop and picked them out."

Cedric was savvy enough to recognize all this as mutual back scratching in which everybody came out a winner, but, "Slughorn blurted it out to her - what they are - and Hermione didn't take it well."

"Whyever not?"

"She thinks . . . well, she thinks the present's too much, but also that she's being patronized."

"Oh, for pity's sake . . . "

"Mum, she doesn't really understand how these sorts of things work, at least not in our world. You might let it slip at some point that having her dressed in Dimble's robes at the Minister's party helps _Madam Dimble_, too."

"Oh, very well, I'll find some opportunity to point it out to her."

"Don't make her feel foolish - "

"Of course not."

They were interrupted from anything further by the sudden arrival of none other than Argus Filch hauling a furious (and frightened) looking Draco Malfoy. He stopped in front of Slughorn, who'd been talking to Harry and - amusingly - Snape. "Professor Slughorn!" Filch half-whined, half-crowed. "I discovered this boy lurking in an upstairs corridor. He claims to have been invited to your party but was delayed in setting out. Did you issue him an invitation?"

Draco jerked free. "All right, I wasn't invited!"

"Certainly not," Cedric's mother murmured beside Cedric. "Because I was."

"I was trying to gate-crash, happy?" Draco finished.

"No, I'm not !" Filch bellowed - although the glint in his eye certainly had him _looking_ happy. "You're in trouble, you are! Didn't the Headmaster say that nighttime prowling's out, unless you've got permission, didn't he, eh?"

Slughorn - who was slightly pissed by this point - waved a hand dismissively. "That's all right, Argus, that's all right. It's Christmas, and it's not a crime to want to come to a party. Just this once, we'll forget any punishment; you may stay, Draco."

Filch didn't look happy . . . but interestingly, neither did Draco - or Snape. Nonetheless, Draco began thanking Slughorn as Filch shuffled off. Cedric watched and listened with interest whilst Draco tried to suck-up to Slughorn . . . until he caught sight of Cedric standing with his mother several feet away. The words died in Draco's throat momentarily, then he resumed as if he hadn't spotted the other half of the Malfoy clan. But Snape stepped in to demand a word with Draco, and despite Slughorn's attempt to dismiss it all, insisted Draco leave with him. Within a few minutes of Draco and Snape's departure, Harry was excusing himself from Luna and Hermione, in order to head out too.

Cedric made his way over to them. "Where's Harry going?" he asked.

"He said he had to go to the loo," Luna replied almost cheerfully, returning to her previous conversation with Professor Trelawney about some 'Rotfang Conspiracy' at the Ministry . . . and Cedric didn't even want to know.

Hermione seemed worried too, as Cedric's mother joined them. "I fear he's gone to, well, spy." She dropped her eyes. "He still thinks Draco was somehow responsible for what happened to Katie Bell."

Cedric's mother frowned. "Why on earth would Draco want to cause harm to Katie? The Malfoys and Bells are friends. After a fashion."

Hermione visibly squirmed. "Er, um, well, uh - he thinks Draco's a Death Eater who's got some sort of . . . mission . . . from Vol-Voldemort."

Interestingly, his mother didn't express immediate doubt. "Possible. Unlikely, however."

"That's what I told him - Ron and I," Hermione said. "Draco's too young to be a Death Eater - "

"Oh, no, he's not too young," his mother said. "It would be atypical, but not unheard of. But that You Know Who would have given him some special assignment that involved harming Jordan Bell's daughter? That, I sincerely doubt."

Hermione seemed surprised. "You really think he could be a Death Eater?"

"Certainly. With Lucius in Azkaban, the Dark Lord is very likely to turn to Draco, or Narcissa, in order to get funding. His little mission of conquest doesn't run on wishes, after all. Many of the old Death Eater families had their funds seized, or have otherwise fallen on hard times - the Lestranges aside. But Bellatrix can hardly waltz into Gringotts to make a withdrawal from her vault. The Dark Lord needs the Malfoy galleons. And if Narcissa might be less forthcoming, Draco's young enough to be flattered into cooperation, especially if he thought he were being taken into the Dark Lord's inner circle."

Hermione appeared thoughtful, and Cedric realized this wasn't something he'd considered before - how Voldemort paid for things - but his mother was, as usual, more shrewd. "I'll suggest that to Harry later," Hermione said. "It's more reasonable than the barmy story he's brewed up in his head. Or you can tell him, Cedric. He might actually _listen_ to you."

"He might," Cedric said. "Or he might not. For now, let's enjoy the rest of the party until Harry comes back."

Unfortunately, Harry didn't come back that night. Cedric's discussion with him would have to wait. 

* * *

><strong>Note:<strong> As some may realize "_ethos_" and "_aretê_" - which I translated here as "character" and "courage" - are tricky Greek words that can have multiple meanings, depending on context. _Andreia_ is the more usual word for courage, but _aretê_ implies an overall excellence of person.


	11. Theories

She shattered like dropped crockery, contents spilling in shrieks and heaving shudders, toes and fingers curled as if to hang on to the sensations. For a full minute, she didn't know where she was, or the hour, or even her own name. She was mind-blank with ecstasy.

Awareness floated back in pieces like pot sherds. She reassembled them as her eyes opened and she stared up at the bathroom rafters, her chest heaving. "Oh, God," she said.

"Nineteen," he replied, pulling his mouth away.

She twisted her head to look down the left side of her body at him. Face lowered, he was wiping his mouth off, using still-sudsy bath water. He wasn't looking at her and she closed her legs, still shy enough not to want to lie there, knees akimbo, past the passion-rush. "Nineteen what?"

"'Oh, Gods'," he clarified, eyes sliding sideways to grin at her. Cheeky bastard.

"You _counted_? I can't believe you _counted_!"

He just reached up to tug on one of her legs. "Come back in."

"Give me a minute. I feel like a puddle of goo." The cheeky grin was back. "Oh, don't look so pleased with yourself, Cedric. It's unbecoming."

His whoop of laughter was cut off when he dove backwards in a smooth arc, disappearing under the water. She pushed herself up to a sitting position, leaning into her hands to watch him move, a pale streak of bare skin beneath islands of fading bubbles. He looked so powerful and confident here.

They had, of course, wound up in the prefects' bath. "All I promised, McGonagall," he'd said when he'd lured her in here, "was that she didn't need to check on us. I didn't promise we wouldn't be _in_ the bath."

"Semantics. You knew that was what she meant, Cedric."

"Of course. But I was careful how I answered her, and I'm pretty sure she realized I as good as told her we _would_ be in here - not to check. But we're both adults now, the term officially ended at midnight - we weren't in here before then - and I'm not even a student anyway."

She'd rolled her eyes, but he was right on all counts, and she was pretty sure McGonagall _had_ understood his intentions perfectly. She and Cedric wouldn't be doing this at all - they'd be on their own tomorrow and could afford to wait - except for the fact it was the _bath_, and in the bath, Cedric was free. No pesky gravity limited their options, and this was only the second time he'd used his mouth on her. The first had been in this same bath. He couldn't kneel on a bed to bend down, and couldn't (easily) kneel beside it either. He'd tried. But in the bath, water held him up where his knees couldn't. She supposed there was another way to do it, but they were still too shy to experiment much. He hadn't (quite) admitted it, but given how quickly he'd maneouvred her onto the pool edge so he could spread her legs and reach her with his tongue, she suspected he'd been fantasizing about it all evening. Part of her was a bit scandalized that he _wanted_ to, even while another part (a less prim and proper part) understood. She liked using her mouth on him as well. (She refused to call it 'sucking' because that sounded absurd and disgusting.) It no longer seemed unsanitary to her, or perverse. Lips and tongue could better feel how soft the skin was on his prick, and how warm, and if she still didn't like the taste of semen, or wiry pubic hair in her mouth, the sounds she could drag out of him made it worth it. So as she'd come to treasure these things, she'd been willing to let him ease her out of the bath onto the marble edge, spread her knees and lower his head between her thighs - however exposed it left her feeling.

Now, he'd resurfaced out in the pool middle, floating, legs and arms spread, head back and penis curled soft against his abdomen. (Funny how, whenever he was naked, she couldn't help but notice what that little bit of flesh was doing. Curiosity, not lust. She didn't have one of those.) He spit a stream of bath water into the air, like a fountain. She laughed. Turning his head, he grinned at her and made a 'join me' gesture, then disappeared beneath the surface once more. Feeling back in her skin finally, she did so, sliding down from the edge into the water. It was cooling but still warm enough to heat up her shoulder blades and bottom where she'd been lying on cold marble. Abruptly, a hand gripped her ankle and pulled her under. She barely had time to close her mouth. She twisted and kicked and punched blindly under water, but struck nothing. Cedric, the fish, was well clear of her. Her head broke the surface again and she gasped for air. "Cedric!"

His own head appeared about ten feet away. He was laughing. "You're too easy, Granger."

"I wasn't trying to run from you - swim from you . . . whatever."

Dog-paddling a little closer, he kept out of grabbing reach, but blew bubbles at her.

Rolling her eyes, she splashed him back. "Behave or no nookie for you, Mr. Diggory."

"Maybe I don't want nookie for me; maybe I just wanted to give nookie to you."

A snort illustrated her opinion of that. "When pigs fly."

"I could charm one."

"You're ridiculous, you know that?"

He'd been moving closer, inch by inch, while she hadn't been paying attention, and now darted forward to grab onto her with his arms while his weakened legs kicked, holding his head above the deep end. "Gotcha!"

She gave a little shove at his chest. "Like that counts? I wasn't even trying to get away."

Pulling her closer, he kissed her wet skin. "Better not. Try to get away, I mean." She thought he might have meant more than just in the bath. "Need you to hold me up."

* * *

><p>Before leaving Hogwarts the next morning, Cedric finally learned what Hermione had meant the night before about "talk" around Hogwarts. He'd assumed it came from Malfoy and Slytherin but it wasn't anybody in Slytherin, much less Draco, who enlightened him.<p>

"Diggory!" a voice shouted behind him as he made his way across the grand entrance towards the Great Hall - and the breakfast being served to departing students before they left for the train. Some of Slughorn's guests from the party would be eating there too. Despite frolicking with Hermione in the Prefects' Bath the previous night, she hadn't slept in his bed. He was alone as the voice called out again, "Oi, Diggory!"

Turning, he waited as Cormac McLaggen pushed his way through the light crowd. "McLaggen," he said, wondering what the Gryffindor wanted. They'd never been more than acquaintances.

"Saw you with Granger at the party last night. That was some dress she had on."

"Yes. Yes, it was." Cedric frowned, puzzled.

"Bet it was fun to take off later." And McLaggen was . . . _leering_. Cedric had always considered that adjective ridiculous, a description for an expression nobody _actually_ made . . . except here it was right in front of him. A wide, toothy grin and sly, slitted eyes.

And he was grossly offended. "I beg your pardon?"

"The dress - it looked like a bit of a puzzle to get off, you know." McLaggen actually winked. "Reckon it keeps what's underneath interesting even if you've been sipping out of that cup a while, yeah?"

Part of Cedric couldn't believe he was actually having this conversation. "Er, ah - look, Cormac, I'm not really sure what business it is of yours - ?" The words might have been belligerent but shock rendered them almost a question. "As for what Hermione looks like beneath her dress, and whether or not I'd know - "

"Oh, honestly, Diggory! Everybody knows you know!"

Blinking at that, Cedric wanted to say, 'Yes, well, manners would normally keep people from saying so', but once again, a mixture of bemusement and cornered politeness kept him mum. McLaggen stepped closer, assuming a familiarity that made Cedric pull his chin in and lean away. "Are you taking her to the Minister's New Year's Eve party?"

"Of course."

McLaggen's shoulders visibly slumped. "I was afraid of that when I saw you with her last night. I was hoping you were seeing someone else now, but I reckon you're still eyeing up the ones at the Ministry before you put the old one out to pasture."

"_What?_" Cedric asked, unable to quite believe what he was hearing.

"Well" - at least McLaggen had the good grace to look down, but Cedric didn't think it from embarrassment - "you don't usually keep them this long, and I'm just saying, you know, when you're done with her, I'd like a shot. You're out of school now. But Potter had her, Krum had her, then you, so I expect she's a piece of arse worth queuing up for. If you'd give me a bit of a tip-off, I could be there to, sort of, er, pick up the pieces."

For three breaths, and despite the fact he was on crutches, Cedric considered belting McLaggen. Hexing might have been more effective, but Cedric wanted the good, old-fashioned satisfaction of hauling back and _punching_ the obnoxious plonker. He didn't. And not for fear of getting into trouble; he was past the point of detentions with Filch.

McLaggen just wasn't worth it, and Hermione deserved better than to find him in a brawl with a swaggering idiot in the castle's main entrance. Instead, he tilted his chin down and just stared at McLaggen, who began to fidget. "You have all the manners of a troll and less intelligence than a firecrab - and if you think you'd have _any_ chance with a witch like Hermione, you're not just mistaken, you're _demented_. Furthermore, if you're waiting for me to give her up, you'll still be waiting when your hair's white and your beard longer than Dumbledore's. Piss off, McLaggen." Turning, he stalked (as much as anybody could "stalk" on crutches) towards the Great Hall.

He remained in a sour mood all morning, refusing to discuss it with Hermione or his mother when they Flooed back to his parents', and if he coaxed her into bed not long after they arrived (even before lunch), he supposed he could be excused for it. He felt a need to _mark_ her, as primitive as that sounded. She belonged to him. He belonged to her, too, of course, but just at the moment, he wasn't thinking in egalitarian terms. He still had McLaggen's ugly leer in his mind and it had triggered an instinctual 'protect my woman' response that would probably have annoyed her if she'd known about it - so he didn't tell her, even when she poked him in the side afterwards and tried to tease the cause of his bad mood out of him. He lay with his head on her abdomen, eyes closed, one hand stroking her thigh beneath the winter blanket.

* * *

><p>Later that Saturday afternoon, Hermione and Cedric went down to the Burrow to visit Harry who was staying with the Weasleys for the holidays. They both wanted to know where he'd got to the night before, but Hermione hadn't expected the story he related while helping Ron to peel brussel sprouts at the kitchen sink. The four of them were, for the moment, alone, and halfway through, when Ron sliced his thumb for the second time, Hermione made a small disgusted noise, pulling her wand to perform a Peeling Charm. "Thanks, Hermione," Ron said, sucking on the bleeding digit. "But next time, maybe you could do that a little sooner?"<p>

"Be glad I'm doing it at all," she replied, returning her attention to Harry. "So Snape was offering to help him? Are you quite certain of that? He was _definitely _offering to help him?"

"If you ask that one more time, I'm going to feed you an uncooked sprout. Yes, Snape was offering to help him. He said he'd promised Malfoy's mother to protect him, that he'd made an Unbreakable Oath or something."

"Unbreakable Vow," Cedric corrected, speaking for the first time. He'd sat through the whole story, frowning slightly while staring at his hands, gripped together in front of him atop the Weasleys' dining table. "And are you _certain_ that's what he said?"

"Yeah, I am," Harry replied. "Why, what does it mean?"

"Well, you can't break an Unbreakable Vow - " Ron began.

"I'd worked that much out for myself, funnily enough," Harry retorted. "What happens if you do break it, then?"

"You die," Ron said simply. "Fred and George tried to get me to make one when I was about five. I nearly did too, I was holding hands with Fred and everything when dad found us. He went mental." Ron had an almost wicked gleam in his eye, as if remembering something he found to be choice. "Only time I've ever seen dad as angry as mum. Fred reckons his left buttock has never been the same since."

"Yeah, well, passing over Fred's left buttock - " Harry started.

"I beg your pardon?" Fred asked as both twins galumphed down the stairs into the kitchen.

"Aaaa, George, look - they must have got either Hermione or Cedric to take pity on them and help with the sprouts, the lazy gits."

"Hermione offered," Ron snapped back. "And I'll be seventeen myself in two-and-a-bit month's time, then I'll be able to do it myself."

"I'm sure you'll dazzle us all with hitherto unsuspected mad magical skills," Fred replied, yawning and plopping down beside Cedric.

"Speaking of hitherto unsuspected skills, Ronald," George said, taking another empty chair, "what is this we heard from Ginny about you and a young lady called - unless our information is faulty - Lavender Brown?"

Hermione watched Ron turn bright pink and shoot a glance her way. She wasn't sure why; it wasn't as if she hadn't seen him glued at the lips to Lavender every night in the Gryffindor common room. At least she and Cedric had never acted like that. "Mind your own business," Ron said now.

"What a snappy retort," Fred replied. "I really don't know how you come up with them. No, what we wanted to know was . . . how did it happen?"

"What d'you mean?" Ron asked, clearly suspicious but too curious not to ask.

"Did she have an _accident_ or something?"

"What?"

"Well, how did she sustain such extensive brain damage -? _Careful_ now!"

Ron had snatched up one of the charmed knives to fling it at Fred even as Mrs. Weasley entered the room and gasped. Fred just pulled his wand and turned the knife into a parchment plane with an almost lazy flick. Hermione was impressed as much as horrified, Cedric was smirking, and Mrs. Weasley bellowed, "_Ron! _ Don't you ever let me see you throwing knives again!"

"I won't," Ron replied, almost meekly, but muttered something under his breath that sounded like 'let you see me' as he turned back to the brussel sprouts. Having interrupted Hermione's charm, he had to go back to doing it by hand.

Mrs. Weasley had turned to Cedric. "Cedric, dear, are you quite certain that you and Bill want to stay in that drafty Muggle place all through the holidays? The twins are home, and Remus is coming, but Charlie isn't going to make it this year. I could slip Bill into the twins' room, Harry and Ron have the attic, and if Bill insisted, well, we could put up Fleur too, in Ginny's room. She might prefer to be with family rather than all alone in London - "

That got a snort from Fred and George . . . who were well aware of the truth of things. George covered the snort by saying, "That'll make Ginny's holiday."

Mrs. Weasley ignored him. "Christmas should be a time for family, even if we might have to squeeze in a bit."

"No, it's all right, Mrs. Weasley," Cedric was saying after shooting the twins a warning glare. "Bill thought it would be easier if he stayed in London until Christmas Eve. We both have to work before and after Christmas, and the flat's closer."

"Well, I suppose that's true, although with Apparating it doesn't really matter . . . " Mrs. Weasley appeared torn between disappointment and relief. Hermione knew that she loved her children around her, but it was also quite a juggling trick to find room for them all at the Burrow, and Harry, and now Fleur, as well.

"So Percy definitely isn't showing his ugly face, then?" Fred asked.

Mrs. Weasley looked away. "No, he's busy, I expect, at the Ministry."

"Or he's the world's biggest prat," Fred said, rising as Mrs. Weasley left the kitchen to go back upstairs, probably readying Remus's room. "Let's get going, then, George."

"What are you two up to?" Ron asked, clearly suspicious.

"We're off to the village, there's a very pretty girl working in the paper shop who thinks my card tricks are something marvellous . . . almost like _real magic_." He winked, then bent down to say to Cedric, "And I'd be careful, mate. Mum's going to figure it out eventually, that Fleur's not living in her own flat."

"Bill's problem," Cedric replied with a grin.

"Yeah, well, she'll consider you to have 'aided and abetted'. She trusts you . . . right now." And the twins ambled out.

"Gits," Ron muttered. "Hermione, do that spell again so we can finish here and go with them."

She sighed, but did as requested although Harry reminded them, "I can't go. I promised Dumbledore I wouldn't wander off while I was staying here."

"Oh, yeah. Are you going to tell Dumbledore what you overheard Snape and Malfoy saying?"

"Yup," Harry said, leaning into the counter and watching the knives peel the sprouts. "I'm going to tell anybody who can put a stop to it, and Dumbledore's top of my list." Hermione was glad to hear that Harry wasn't being uncooperative and suspicious like last year. But then, Dumbledore wasn't avoiding him, either. "I might have another word with your dad too."

"Pity you didn't hear what Malfoy's actually up to, though," Ron said.

"Well, as he was refusing to tell Snape, I couldn't have done, could I?"

"Harry," Hermione said, feeling tentative. "Have you considered that Snape might just be trying to find out what Malfoy's planning?"

"You didn't hear him, Hermione." Harry's tone was turning belligerent. "No one's that good an actor, even Snape."

"You know Dumbledore's going to say the same thing she did," Ron pointed out.

"But _you_ think I'm right, don't you?" Harry asked Ron. Hermione thought she heard an undercurrent of neediness in it. He turned those green eyes on her next. "You too?"

"Yeah, 'course I do!' Ron replied. "We both do." Hermione wished he hadn't included her, but was glad enough not to have to answer. Cedric was staying quiet, and Hermione noticed that Harry_ hadn't_ asked him. Ron glanced at Cedric. "But they're all convinced Snape's in the Order. They won't believe it."

"They have to admit Malfoy's up to something, at least!" Harry snapped, turning away. "That much is obvious."

Hermione shot Cedric a look as well, willing him to be the voice of reason. He sighed but sat back, unlacing his hands finally. "Harry, I think you're right that Malfoy _is_ up to something." Hermione bit her tongue to hold in a squeak of protest. Not Cedric too . . . "I'm even prepared to accept he could be a Death Eater." Harry had twisted to look at the table, his expression caught between hopeful and cautious. He could hear the 'but' coming as clearly as Hermione. "But my mother pointed out something that I hadn't thought of - and it's worth considering."

"You told your mother?" Harry asked, expression betrayed.

"Well, I told her that you - we - thought Draco might be a Death Eater. I could hardly tell her about this latest theory since you just told me."

"Oh, yeah." Harry tilted his head. "What'd she say?"

"She said he might be - a Death Eater, that is."

"See!"

"Wait." Cedric held up a hand. "She said Voldemort needs money, whatever he's up to, and most of the Death Eaters left have either lost their wealth after the first war, or they're wanted men - and women - and can't go marching into Gringotts' to make withdrawals. The Malfoys still have their fortune, but with Lucius in Azkaban, how can Voldemort get it without Narcissa or Draco's cooperation? She thinks he made Draco a Death Eater because the son is easier to flatter than the mother. Harry, don't glare, you have to admit there's logic in it."

And Harry was glaring. "Why would Snape make this Unbreakable Vow then? And wouldn't Snape know about it if all Draco is up to is bank-rolling Voldemort?"

Harry did have a point, Hermione had to admit, but Cedric shrugged with one shoulder. "I'd reckon Narcissa knows exactly what Voldemort wants Draco for, and she's asked Snape to keep him out of trouble."

"With an Unbreakable Vow? That you can die from? Isn't that a bit _much_?"

Cedric squirmed. "It is. Unless Narcissa doesn't trust Snape - which she might not. Voldemort does, but that doesn't mean all his followers do. In fact, from what you said, Snape _told_ Draco he swore the oath _to_ protect him. I don't think there's any mystery here."

Harry was clearly sceptical. "Maybe. But that still doesn't explain whatever it is Malfoy's up to that Snape was trying to get out of him."

"It may not be anything Voldemort told him to do, Harry - "

"Malfoy _said_ it was an assignment from Voldemort. And you didn't hear them talking, Ced. You wouldn't be doubtful if you had!"

Cedric frowned, clearly torn. Hermione was too. "Well," she said now, "It does sound as if Malfoy _is_ up to something, but are you really certain it's something Vol-Voldemort told him to do? Neither Malfoy nor Professor Snape named him, did they?"

"Snape said 'your master' and who else could _that_ be?"

"His father?" Hermione suggested, but she was reaching and knew it.

"Do you call your dad 'master'?" Harry retorted.

"Well, no, but he's not Lucius Malfoy, either. Maybe they have some . . . weird relationship?"

Harry just rolled his eyes. "Don't believe me then," he muttered.

"We believe you," Cedric broke in. "We're just not sure we completely agree with your interpretation of what you heard." Trust Cedric not to let Harry turn it into either-or. "I do agree that's it's quite possible Draco is now a Death Eater. I'll even concede that he thinks he's got some mission to accomplish, whether or not Voldemort himself gave it to him. Remember that the ranks of the Death Eaters are hierarchical, and I seriously doubt Draco is very high. This might be an assignment from one of the others - still his 'master'."

"But he's up to something!"

"Yes, he probably is! He's a sneaky little ferret." Cedric's words made Harry smirk. "But what I'm not convinced of is that Snape is truly trying to _help_ him. Protect him yes, but help him is something else."

"He said he wanted to help him!"

"He also scolded him for the incident with Katie - assuming Draco did have anything to do with that and he wasn't telling Snape the truth that he wasn't involved - "

"He was involved."

Cedric raised a hand again. "He may have been. We all know Draco lies, and he'd probably even lie to Snape when he doesn't want his help. But my point still stands. I don't think Snape really wants to help; I think Snape wants to know what Draco is up to so he can tell Dumbledore. It sounds like he agreed to protect Draco, is all." Harry was looking sulky, so Cedric changed the subject. "Now fill me in on these lessons with Dumbledore. I haven't had a chance to talk to you directly, just heard about it from Hermione."

Still annoyed, Harry hesitated a moment as if he'd refuse, then gave in and came over to sit at the table, followed by Ron. He related the memories he'd seen in Dumbledore's pensieve. "What do you think of it all?" he asked when finished. "I mean, it's interesting, but I don't really see the point - why's he showing me all this stuff?"

Cedric was running a hand through his hair like he did when puzzling over something. "I think at least some of it is trying to understand how Riddle became Voldemort."

"But why?"

"Know your enemy - know what he might try next . . . or not try next. What are his weak spots? I guarantee you that he's figured out yours."

Harry dropped his eyes. "Yeah. He proved that last June."

Leaning forward, Hermione gripped Harry's arm in sympathy and shot Cedric a glare, but Cedric didn't seem repentant. "What I find interesting," he said, voice speculative, "is how early he started trying to control people. And Dumbledore's right - he doesn't want to need anybody, so he won't let anybody close. But you - you have what he doesn't, Harry." He pointed to Ron then Hermione. "A right hand and a left. He doesn't think he needs that, but he's a fool."

Smiling, Hermione watched Harry's face turn thoughtful. She didn't miss Ron's evident pleasure either. Cedric had named them but hadn't included himself, and Hermione thought Ron might need that affirmation these days.

On their way back to his parents' place later, Hermione said, "You know it's entirely possible that Mrs. Weasley _will _find out you're not _actually_ staying in London, whatever you told her - and that might make her start asking questions about Bill. He really needs to tell her the truth."

"Maybe," Cedric allowed. "I can always say I changed my mind and decided to come home for the holidays a little early. Oh, and speaking of 'home for the holidays' - guess who is staying at whose house before the holidays?"

"I have no idea, Cedric." Hermione sniffed. "Stop being cryptic and just tell me."

"Tonks took Scott home with her."

Hermione stopped dead. "So they're finally admitting that they're seeing each other?"

"That's just it." Cedric had paused too. "All they're saying is that it's 'just as friends'."

Hermione threw up her hands. "I don't understand those two!"

"None of us do, trust me." They started walking again, and he asked, "So Ron has a girlfriend?"

"More like a snogging partner; I'm not sure they've ever had an actual conversation." Cedric smirked. "But, yes. She's in my dormitory, actually - well, one of them."

"I thought the name sounded familiar."

After a moment, she went on, "It was a bit odd, how embarrassed he got about it with Fred and George. It's not as if he's _shy_ with her at school. You'd think they were a pair of leeches, the way they go at it in our common room, or the Great Hall, or even the hallways between classes. It seems like every time I turn around, he's trying to eat her face."

Cedric actually laughed. "I think he's trying to make you jealous."

"What! _Why?_"

Stopping, Cedric turned to her and adjusted his posture so he could reach out to tuck some of her wild hair behind her ear. It was bitterly cold, and his cheeks were flushed from the exertion of walking on the crutches. "Granger, people don't just get over crushes at the drop of a hat - well, not if they genuinely care for the person. Ron . . . he cares for you. I think he might even love you, in his own way."

She just blinked up at him, not quite believing what she was hearing. "But he knows how I feel about you - "

"Yes, I think he does. That's the problem. He actually cares about you enough not to push it, but even the best of us can't be completely gracious. I suspect . . . well, if I were Ron, I wouldn't be above a little 'See, somebody can like me too' one-upmanship. Ron needs somebody who thinks he's the bee's knees. Besides just Harry."

Hermione frowned. "I think he's special too, you know. But I can't" - she shook her head - "I can't feel _that_ about him anymore. Maybe once, but not now."

Setting off again, Cedric smirked. "Well, that's good to know. I don't do well with competition." Hermione was abruptly reminded of what his mother had said before Slughorn's party.

* * *

><p>Cedric might have been lying to Mrs. Weasley about staying in London with Bill, but he hadn't been lying about working after Christmas. In fact, he was back in the office bright and early the day after Boxing Day. So was the Minister, who stopped in Cedric's doorway mid-morning.<p>

"You're in, Diggory. Good boy." Cedric resisted raising an eyebrow even if the Minister's tone made him feel like a dog who'd performed his trick properly. He didn't expect Scrimgeour to do more than say hello, but to his surprise, the older man entered to settle himself in the spare office chair, hands folded across the front of his robes.

"Yes, sir?" Cedric asked, pausing in his perusal of his morning papers.

"I assume you're coming to the New Year's Eve party?" It was more statement than question.

"Yes, sir."

"And you'll be bringing the lovely Miss Granger?"

"I'd planned on it." Cedric wondered where this was leading.

"Miss Granger is a particularly good friend of Harry Potter, isn't she? And after the Tournament, you and Mr. Potter became close as well. Why don't you invite him to come along with you?"

Cedric sat back in his chair. "I can certainly ask him, sir - but couldn't you just owl him an invitation yourself? He might be more inclined to accept if you invited him personally."

Scrimgeour stood and brushed his robes straight. "Oh, no, no. Mr. Potter is on the modest side, I understand. He might feel . . . overwhelmed. But if the invitation came from his friends, that would be different. You bring him along, Cedric. Make it a double-date if he's seeing anybody. I'll be certain to have extra room at dinner. It's fitting for me to honour both the Triwizard Champions. That didn't happen last year - for reasons we both know - and should have. Better late than never, don't you think?" And the Minister headed out, leaving a puzzled Cedric behind. Whatever Scrimgeour had said, Cedric was fairly certain he wouldn't have tapped Cedric to bring Harry if there weren't a reason for not asking him directly. He found out that reason when he headed to the Burrow to relay the Minister's invitation that evening. He was alone, Hermione still with her parents in London. They'd agreed that they should each spend a little time with their families individually that holiday.

"Like hell I'm going to his party!" Harry practically shouted, earning a, "Language!" from Mrs. Weasley where she was working on dinner in the kitchen with Ginny. But she didn't seem otherwise upset at Harry's refusal.

"Why not?" Cedric asked, surprised by Harry's vehemence.

So Harry related how Scrimgeour had used Percy to arrange to 'drop by' the Burrow on Christmas Day just so he could try to talk Harry into popping in at the Ministry to play poster boy. Harry - never one to be herded - had refused spectacularly. "I wasn't going to act like I approve of a Ministry who chucks innocent people into prison just so they can make some arrest quota. And it's not like they were all that quick to want my help last year, were they? But now all of a sudden, I'm the Chosen One and Scrimgeour doesn't really care if I am or not - that much, he told me honestly - but he wants to use me to buck up his administration. I told him I wasn't keen to be used. I'm Dumbledore's man, not Scrimgeour's pawn!"

Well, that gave Cedric the missing part of the puzzle, yet something about Harry's self-righteous tone rubbed him up the wrong way. "So I'm a pawn?"

It was clear from Harry's startled expression that he hadn't meant it that way, but Fred - who was playing Exploding Snap at the table with George and Ron - said, "If the shoe fits, Diggory . . . "

"Fred!" Mrs. Weasley scolded. "Cedric's just doing what Dumbledore asked him to do. Do you think your father's Scrimgeour's pawn just because _he_ works for the Ministry?"

"Dad doesn't work for Scrimgeour personally, now does he?" Fred replied. "Cedric, Percy . . . "

Cedric could feel his jaw working and he reached for his crutches. He didn't have to sit here and be insulted. But Harry leaned over to snatch them away. "I didn't mean it like you took it."

"Then how did you mean it?"

"I wasn't insulting you," Harry insisted, stubborn, Cedric's crutches held hostage in his hands. "I was just explaining why _I_ won't do anything to help Scrimgeour - including go to his rotten party." He sighed. "But Dumbledore did tell you to take that job and I know it's important for you to be there. It's just not important for me to be there. It's more important for me not to be."

"So what am I supposed to say to him when he asks why you're not with us?"

"Tell him the truth. I refused to come. It's not like you can _make_ me, is it? You filled your end of the deal - you asked. I refused."

Sighing, Cedric slumped back against his chair, his eyes on Fred rather than Harry. "Yeah, but I'm sure he expects me to convince you. I may be working for him now, but we'll see how long that lasts after the party."

Mr. Weasley, who'd been reading a book in his chair by the fire, looked up. "He's not going to sack you, Cedric. You may not be the Chosen One, but you're a Triwizard Champion; he'll be keeping you around." He returned his eyes to the book and turned a page. "But you might expect to do a bit of penance for a month or two."

"Great," Cedric muttered under his breath. At least Harry looked _slightly_ apologetic as he gave Cedric back his crutches.

* * *

><p>"What do you mean he refused?" Minister Scrimgeour hissed. He'd spotted Hermione and Cedric within moments of their arrival at his party, and had also noticed they'd come alone. Slipping through the crowd gathered in the Ministry ballroom, he pulled Cedric aside to ask where Harry was.<p>

Hermione knew the Minister's irritable reaction was exactly what Cedric had feared. Unlike Harry, Cedric had a deep-seated aversion to disappointing people - even when he knew a request wasn't on in the first place. It was part of Cedric's general dislike of conflict, and Hermione wondered sometimes how he expected to be an ambassador if he couldn't stand having people upset with him. Diplomats often had the unenviable task of letting each side know they weren't getting everything they'd wanted.

Now, Cedric glanced down with a frown, a lock of his hair falling into his eyes. "I'm sorry, sir. I did ask him to come with us - urged him, even - but he, er, well, he said he couldn't."

Scrimgeour was eyeing Cedric with suspicion. He'd scarcely acknowledged Hermione, just started having a go at Cedric as soon as it was clear that Harry wasn't with him. "I dare say 'couldn't' wasn't quite how he put it, Diggory. Let's cut the word mincing."

Cedric finally glanced up and there was a slight . . . edge . . . to the look in his eyes. "Well, er - yes. What he said was, 'Like hell I'm going to his party.'" Hermione wanted to put a hand over her eyes. _Oh, Harry_, she thought, followed by, _Oh, Cedric_. She doubted the Minister had meant Cedric to be quite _that_ blunt. "Of course," Cedric went on, "after you spoke with him at Christmas, I'm sure you know how he can get."

The expression on Cedric's face was sly, and where once Hermione wouldn't have thought 'sly' ever fit Cedric, she'd learned better since. He was his mother's son. And indeed, Scrimgeour lifted an eyebrow, then chuckled. "Indeed," was all he said, clapping Cedric on the shoulder, careful not to shove him over. He turned to Hermione then and held out a hand. She started to shake it, but he raised it to his lips to kiss the back. His whiskers tickled. "Miss Granger, I'm pleased to meet you finally. I've heard - and seen - a great deal of you, what with the number of pictures Diggory here has of you in his office." Cedric blushed at that. "None of those pictures do the reality justice. I hope you enjoy your evening." He let her hand go and moved on.

"Well," she said. "Well. He's a flatterer, isn't he?"

"Mmm."

"At least he didn't fire you. But I can't believe you told him _exactly_ what Harry said."

"Mum suggested I let him know that I know why he'd asked me to invite Harry in the first place - but without accusing him directly or getting angry about it. The Minister likes to pretend he wants straight talk, but it's only on his terms. I wouldn't have told him what Harry said if he hadn't asked, but he did, so . . . " He shrugged; it was intentionally artless. "It worked."

Hermione snorted.

Shortly afterwards, the Minister called them all to dinner. It was a sit-down affair in the hall beside the ballroom, with linen-covered round tables seating eight each and cut-ice vases in the centre, charmed to stay frozen, holding glittering arrangements of poinsettias and ivy. The large central table (seating twelve for the Minister and his special guests) bore an ice sculpture of a swan, lit within by fairy lights. At a table off to one side, Hermione found her name and Cedric's hovering in festive gold above china place-settings. She didn't miss the fact that "Harry Potter and guest" hovered above two places beside theirs, and would, perforce, remain empty. At least they weren't seated with anybody Hermione couldn't tolerate. In fact, they weren't seated with anybody she even knew; their table-mates were slightly older, but still within their same age range - other attachés from Scrimgeour's office apparently, as they knew Cedric. Well, three did. The boyfriend of one had to be introduced just like Hermione.

Dinner commenced with cream of vegetable soup, then sliced roast beef in wild mushroom sauce and parsleyed potatoes. If normally Hermione never knew what to say or how to fit in at these parties, it was easier with Cedric to carry the conversation. If his dislike of making people upset might render a diplomatic career difficult, this was the flip side**:** why he'd be so very, very good at it. He liked people and it showed - and they responded, opening to him like sunflowers to the sun. Unfortunately, she didn't share his gift but supposed she'd best get used to it if she stayed with him, envisioning endless Ministry parties like this one, marching into the future. When the dessert arrived, she surreptitiously checked her watch under the table. Only half past nine; they'd not been here two hours and already she was bored, but with two glasses of heavy red wine in him and sitting so he didn't feel awkward on crutches, Cedric was clearly having a wonderful time, his voice louder and his gestures expansive, his laugh easy. But if he didn't stop running his hands through his hair like that, he was going to look as if he'd just got out of bed.

Once the apple-and-lemon or hazelnut-and-raspberry tarts had been served to all, Minister Scrimgeour rose and clinked his fork against the edge of his wineglass. He didn't bother with a Sonorous spell. For this hall, his own deep voice carried perfectly well. "I'd like to thank each of you for coming tonight. You gentlemen look most debonair and our ladies are like winter diamonds." Hermione resisted rolling her eyes. "We have a brilliant evening of entertainment planned**:** music, masques, and ballet." Hermione blinked. This was a good deal fancier than she'd expected - black-tie affair or not. "And of course, time for all of you to mingle and dance in the ballroom later before midnight. Now, if I may direct your attention to the hall stage, we'll begin with a series of scenes presented by the Ministry's Theatre Troupe, for your delight and amusement."

And with a sudden blast of orchestral music that abruptly decrescendoed, the hall chandeliers extinguished, leaving only fairy lights inside the ice swan and little glowing balls above each table, just enough light to see to eat. Stage lights flashed on at the end of the hall furthest from them, alas, showing their relative lack of importance that evening. Dancers were illumined against a winter backdrop and the orchestra began. Given the aahs and whispered comments that were passed, Hermione thought this must be as familiar to them as _The Nutcracker _would be to her. Leaning forward to speak in Cedric's ear (his table seat placed him slightly in front of her), she asked, "What is this?"

Twisting, he glanced back, replying, "A famous ballet called _Avalon_, about the rise and fall of Arthur. They won't perform the whole thing - it's three-and-a-half hours long - but they'll do select dances. Mum says they always include 'Excalibur from the Lake', but the others vary."

Hermione just nodded, eyes on the stage. Wizarding ballet wasn't like Muggle, it seemed. The grand jeté really did _fly_, not just leap, legs extended. But it wasn't lacking in athleticism, either, charms or no; much of the magic was expended in scenery. When Arthur approached the "lake" and the Lady lifted her sword, Hermione found herself gasping in delight as glittering silver elevated itself far above the stage and flashed, casting prisms of colour all over the room before cartwheeling through the air into Arthur's hand. "Wow," she whispered.

In front of her, Cedric twisted slightly again, eyebrow raised, grinning. "Now you see why they always do at least this one."

She nodded, wordless, but it struck her abruptly how much she still didn't know about her adopted world. She hadn't realized that Wizards performed ballet, just as she hadn't realized that magical painting was different from portraits. For all she'd read and learned, there was still so much of the culture she remained ignorant of, and she found herself deflated by that recognition. In her fury to learn spells and history, she'd missed things.

After "Excalibur from the Lake," the dances turned darker, as if chosen to reflect the mood of the times. They showed the seduction of Arthur by Morganna, the presentation of Mordred - and then the final battle, which ended with the mutual deaths of Arthur and his bastard son. The allusions to Voldemort and Harry were, she thought, rather obvious, but her blood ran cold as Arthur and Mordred circled each other in a whirling frenzy of movement, only to strike and fall simultaneously. She must have made some sound because Cedric reached behind to seek her hand. She gave it and he squeezed. As the stage curtain fell and applause rolled out, he leaned back to whisper, "Bloody poor choice if they really thought Harry would be here tonight."

"Or that was the point," she returned.

He only nodded as a vocal ensemble took over the stage, belting out Renaissance carols and ballads, and she could let her mind drift. She wasn't much of a musician, and knew Cedric wasn't either. A troop of pantomimes replaced the singers for a Dumbshow, most of which seemed to consist of slightly ribald humour, turning the serious edge to laughter. At quarter to eleven, the entertainers disappeared and the east doors swept open, back into the ballroom where a chamber orchestra had begun country dance music for the evening. Guests rose from their tables but she waited with Cedric as the room cleared so he could get out too. During the performances, he'd had more wine - probably a full bottle's worth, total - making him relaxed and cheery. In fact, he nearly tripped himself trying to rise, and laughing, sat back down to pull his wheelchair out of his pocket and expand it. "Maybe I should use this."

"Maybe you should," she agreed, somewhere between amused and scandalized. Should he be getting tight at the Minister's party? But he wasn't alone. Quite a number of the guests were unsteady on their feet - including, she noted, Percy Weasley. Well wasn't that something? But Ministry house-elves had kept wine glasses topped all evening and it would have been easy to drink more than one realized. She'd been careful to stick to water . . . fortunately, as she wound up having to push Cedric's chair from the hall herself because he kept crashing into chair legs. "You are _off your face_, Mr. Diggory," she whispered in his ear, albeit fondly. "For shame, for shame."

He turned his head to look up at her over his shoulder. "Good food, good wine, a beautiful woman . . . " His eyes, she noticed, weren't on her face but on her chest where the cold of the rooms had made her nipples pucker and poke against the velvet of her gown. This wasn't the sort of dress for a bra, although some sort of magical adhesive cups must exist that she could've used, if she were actually big enough to worry about it.

Cedric wasn't alone in taking a less-than-proper notice of her dress. More than a few men in the ballroom gave her the once over, and more than a few women shot poisonous glances her way. To her relief, Kingsley Shacklebolt - properly sober - joined the two of them, bringing a stately, full-figured woman almost as tall as he was, but pale alabaster to his dark berry. "Hermione, Cedric," he said, grinning. "This is my wife, Katta Nortje."

"I'm very pleased to meet you," Katta said, shaking their hands. She had a low, throaty voice and the remnants of some Germanic accent. The four chatted briefly until Kingsley said, "We have to leave soon. We promised our kids we'd be home to see in the new year with them." He and his wife drifted away then to make their excuses to Minister Scrimgeour.

Hermione squatted down beside Cedric's chair, one hand on the arm for balance. "It's funny, you know? I saw Kingsley all summer and it never occurred to me to wonder whether he had a family. I just assumed he didn't. I suppose I do the same with the professors. Are any of them married, do you know? Or do they stay single like Oxford dons?"

"McGonagall's single," Cedric said, "and Snape, and Dumbledore. Flitwick is married - or at least he was; I've heard him mention his kids. I don't know a lot about the others, but Sprout shares a house with Grubbly-Plank and has for decades now."

Hermione glanced sideways at him. "_Share_ a house as in . . . not just as housemates?"

"That's right." He eyed her. "Scandalized?"

"No, of course not. The Muggle world is ahead of yours in that, actually. I don't see any same-sex couples here tonight, but at a Muggle government affair, you'd spot at least a few these days. I'm not sure why it's less accepted here - it's not as if Wizards keep Christian morals."

"There's a lot of pressure in our world to marry and produce properly magical children," Cedric explained. "The more, the better. Being, er, _that_ sort rather interferes."

"Well, not necessarily," Hermione said, but decided this wasn't the time to get into a debate about alternative lifestyles. "After sitting through all those performances, I need to go to the loo."

"All right," he replied.

Naturally she wound up in the ladies toilets at the same time as Dolores Umbridge and some of her clique. They were powdering their noses (literally), and Hermione - who really did have to go - tried to sneak past to the back stalls, then took her time, hoping they'd all be gone before she re-emerged. No such luck. She was certain Umbridge had been waiting. The woman gave her a sickening smile that was mirrored by the other two - one a skinny, horsey-faced woman who reminded Hermione a bit of Harry's horrid aunt, and the other as stout as Umbridge if taller, but a good deal more attractive. "Miss Granger," Umbridge said in her high, girly voice. "What a surprise it was to see you here tonight."

Hermione decided not to play along with the fake politeness and pushed past them to wash her hands at a sink and check her appearance. Her hair still looked all right, but her lipstick was gone. Pulling out a tube, she reapplied it, the colourless cream turning deep wine red as it touched her lips. The three watched her and the stout-but-pretty one said, "How incredibly rude, Dolores. She can't even be bothered to speak. You're quite right; Muggle girls clearly learn no manners."

"Yes, it's unfortunate," Umbridge agreed. "But breeding always shows, you know - in behaviour _and_ in dress. No self-respecting witch would wear that sort of get-up to a formal banquet."

And Hermione just couldn't keep her mouth shut. Twisting the lipstick back in, she snapped the lid on, dropped it into her little beaded bag and turned to face all three of them. "It's a Dimble."

"A . . . I beg your pardon?" Umbridge's eyes had widened almost comically.

"It's a Dorothy Dimble Original," she said more clearly, repeating what Slughorn had told her and hoping to hell he'd been right. It did, in fact, shut them up, all three, and she silently heaped thanks on Lucy Diggory's head, however reluctant she'd initially been. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I left my date in the ballroom and he'll be wondering where I am."

She made to move past, but a steely hand gripped her upper arm and stopped her. She tried to jerk free, without success. Umbridge stared up into her face, grin wide. "Oh, no, my dear. You won't get away back to your cheating boyfriend that easily. Aren't you ashamed to be seen with him? After he admitted that he had sexual relations with somebody at Hogwarts who apparently _wasn't_ yourself?"

Eyes glittering, Umbridge watched - waiting for Hermione either to blurt out the truth and incriminate herself, or to swallow objections and suffer the humiliation of the public story Cedric had used to save her from expulsion the year before. She chose to glare in silence. Umbridge's grin widened further. "Boys like that - they never change, Miss Granger. Especially those in public office. They might marry the clever girl, but they seek their pleasure elsewhere. I hear that Mr. Diggory is sharing a flat with the eldest of the Weasley boys, who's engaged to a Veela. That must be terribly nerve-wracking for you, to know she's over there frequently while you're far, far away in Scotland. Not to mention there are all those young ladies at the Ministry who he sees daily - Claudia Ransome, for instance. She was seated at your dinner table, I do believe. The two of them appeared to be quite . . . friendly." She let Hermione's arm go. "Have a good evening, Miss Granger."

Hermione stormed past, practically exploding from the toilets to hurry down the hallway, but not back into the ballroom. She found a nook that she could press into and just breathe.

That horrible, horrible woman. One minute, she was practically accusing Hermione of being a tramp, and the next, implying that Cedric would use her to look respectable while keeping other girls on the side - all based on the completely false notion that he'd cheated on her last year. But of course, he hadn't - and Umbridge _knew_ that. She knew Cedric had split legal hairs in order to save Hermione's reputation and education, but she'd still managed to make it sound true, twisting it until Hermione felt insecure over an infidelity Cedric had never committed. "How does she _do_ that?" Hermione muttered to herself.

Because, indeed, she _was_ suddenly thinking about the way Cedric had laughed with the young woman Claudia at dinner, and about the fact that even in her current gown, she remained a plain-Jane next to Fleur Delacour - never mind that both Claudia and Fleur were apparently promised elsewhere. These sudden insecurities really were quite absurd; she had to get a hold of herself.

Breathing finally under control, she peeked around the corner to be certain Umbridge wasn't lying in wait, but the hallway was empty so she hurried back into the ballroom, hoping Cedric wasn't upset over her long absence.

In fact, she wasn't certain he'd even noticed. He was by the punch table, chatting to some of their dinner companions including, annoyingly, Claudia Ransome. "Stop it!" she muttered to herself. "You will not turn into a ridiculous, whirling, jealous hag." But part of her remained shirty that he could manage without her so readily, and she turned her attention to the rest of the ballroom. Dancers twirled on the floor beneath crystal-and-candle chandeliers making passes and swings, draw poussettes and chassés to something by Purcell that she vaguely recognized. But most stood on the fringes, watching. Among them, she spotted Percy Weasley again - apparently at the party alone. She made her way over to him. "Percy," she said, stepping up beside him from behind. He started and spun, his eyes falling down the front of her dress. They still looked glassy from alcohol. "Could I have a word with you?"

"Er, ah - of course?" He sounded more uncertain than haughty as he followed her over to stand beneath a tapestry on the wall. "I haven't seen you in a long time, Hermione. You look lovely tonight."

One eyebrow went up as she studied him. Yes, he was definitely drunk. "Thank you," she said. There was no cause to be ungracious. "I want to talk to you, Percy. I know that you and your family . . . " she trailed off as his face hardened. "I know there are points of disagreement - and I don't, actually, want to talk about those. I took you aside because I want to ask you to write to your mother, maybe even see her now and then. She worries about you." Reaching out, she took his hands in hers. "She can't say your name without tearing up."

He pulled his hands free, face progressing from irritation to anger. "If she wants me to talk to her, then she and my father should stop doing things that embarrass me at the Ministry!"

"Percy, she's your _mum_. There can't be anything so - " She cut off, frustrated. "I don't care what your politics are, or hers, there can't be anything more important than the fact she's your mum, and she loves and misses you." She reached for his hands again but he evaded her.

At least he looked shamefaced for a moment, but viciousness quickly overtook it. "She's the only one who misses me. The rest of them, they reckon they're well-rid of me. And that's how I feel about them too! The lot of you, actually. You're just like them - you and Harry Potter - getting them all mixed up with that barmy Dumbledore!"

Her own face hardened; she could feel it. "Well, 'barmy Dumbledore' and Harry turned out to be right - Vol-, He Who Must Not Be Named is back. You can't deny that now!"

"It's not a matter of denying it! It's how they conduct themselves! They refuse to cooperate with the Ministry! The Minister was highly dissatisfied with Harry after their Christmas chat - "

"_That_ went both ways! All the Minister wanted was for Harry to endorse his policies, but he doesn't care about Harry. He just wants to use him!"

"Harry should feel honoured to be used! It's his duty!"

"If the Ministry hadn't been so horrible to him last year, he'd be more willing to help now."

Percy's lips thinned and he leaned away from her. He still looked pissed, but angry too, and like the rest of his family, he had a temper when stirred. "I should've known you'd defend him. You've changed, Hermione. You're not the polite, studious girl you were when I knew you in school. You've become insolent like my brothers, and Harry, and your boyfriend. Or should I say your _lover_? Oh, yes, I've heard _all_ the stories. It's positively shameful."

"You're one to talk, given what Ginny's told me about catching you and Penelope Clearwater snogging in empty classrooms!"

"That's _all_ _we_ did! I'm a gentleman! I _respected_ Penelope's virtue!"

" - which clearly paid off, didn't it? Where is she tonight, Percy?" Hermione pretended to look all around him. "Don't see her on your arm. Don't see anybody on your arm, in fact." She was being vicious herself now, but wouldn't stand here and be treated like a common scrubber.

Percy was practically purple with rage. "I've had other girls since Penelope!" Then, as if just realizing how what he'd said could be interpreted, his jaw dropped. "I don't mean like that!"

"Of course not," Hermione said, tone icy.

"At least I don't date women who misplace half their dress!"

Hermione opened her mouth to retort but a new voice spoke at her elbow, "Stop insulting my girlfriend, Percy." Startled, she looked around and down. Cedric sat in his chair, face hard. "And being a gentleman means more than respecting Hermione's virtue - it means respecting _Hermione_. She's a human being, not a trophy."

"That's funny coming from you, mate, since according to the papers you obviously didn't respect her enough to keep it in your trousers with other girls at school. How many did you have on the side before you got caught, Diggory? You boys with pretty faces - you're all the same."

Turning, he made to stalk away, but Hermione called after, "Write to your mother, Percy Ignatius!"

"That went brill," Cedric muttered. "He's full of shit, you know. Well, of course you know."

She sighed. "But apparently it's what some are thinking even if they're not saying it. I don't know which is worse - having everybody know we were breaking rules to do _that_, or having them think you were unfaithful."

Reaching up, he snagged her hand and pulled her down into his lap, pressing his forehead to hers. It was probably a little intimate for a ballroom, but they were still off in a corner. "Do you want me to make it clear I lied?" he asked softly. "I could, you know; I could let it 'slip'. The Ministry loves juicy gossip; everybody would've heard by the end of the week. Last year, I just . . . I didn't want you to be expelled too. I didn't think people would still be talking about it half a year later!"

She shook her head slightly, forehead still braced against his. "No, Cedric; doing that would just raise it all again. Better to let it stay dormant until it's so far in the past, nobody cares. I'm afraid it'd be worse for you right now if people realize you lied to cover it up than if they think you were unfaithful. Society is funny that way, isn't it? It's like we expect men to cheat and forgive them in advance. Even their wives expect it."

He leaned away so his eyes could meet hers. "I won't," he told her, voice low and earnest. "I promise you - I won't. Not ever. You'll never have reason to doubt me, poppet."

Smiling a bit sadly, she reached up to cup his face. She wanted to believe him, and he obviously believed it himself, yet she remained sceptical, poisoned by Percy's and Umbridge's speculation. Even if Cedric's 'past infidelity' were untrue - and at least Umbridge knew it - that didn't mean it would be untrue in the future. Maybe Percy had a point about boys with pretty faces. She immediately felt horrible for thinking so, but couldn't banish the doubts.


	12. Disappearing & Reappearing

"So it's not helping?"

"It's not curing me, no. Helping - maybe. They're not sure yet."

Hermione just stared at his face. He wasn't looking at her, was looking instead at his cup of tea. It was the day before she had to return to Hogwarts and they were in his flat's little eat-in kitchen, but he was only now telling her what he'd apparently known since early December. She debated whether she should be angry, then pushed it aside. She knew Cedric; he hadn't been concealing this to deceive her. She suspected he'd just needed a month to process it himself, whatever he'd said about not being surprised. They'd all hoped . . .

But his condition _was_ permanent. He wouldn't get better, ever. She'd known that for a year now - since last year's Christmas holidays - and yet some part of her had resisted it. Acceptance wasn't linear. She circled around through denial, bargaining, anger, depression and finally acquiescence, only to do it all again when faced with something new. And if she was going through this, how much worse must it be for him? "I wish dad and mum hadn't talked you into it, got your hopes up and all for nothing - !"

"No, poppet." He laid a hand over hers. The amber-brown velvet of his sleeve cuff almost glowed under the overhead kitchen light; he was wearing the robes she'd bought him for Christmas. "Your parents were trying to help. And it may not have been for nothing, even if it's not curing anything. They want to wait till next summer, then decide if the treatments are worth what they're probably costing tax payers. The Ministry takes their chunk from my salary, to be sure, and pays fees to Inland Revenue - but still."

"It's your time and bother I'm more concerned about," Hermione told him. She knew Cedric had an honest streak, but really. If the Muggle government could afford to support the royals, they could pay for treatments that reduced a brave man's suffering. "You helped Harry keep Voldemort in check, and if that's not a service to the Muggles worth some medical treatments, then I don't know what is." She gripped his fingers. "If they're keeping you from suffering those horrid attacks, then I'm all for continuing them as long as you want to. Don't stop just because you think you haven't . . . earned it or something."

Sighing, he let her hand go and sat back. For a long moment, he just watched her; she wondered what he was thinking. His face was so serious, but he smiled less these days generally. They all did. The atmosphere in the Wizarding world reminded her of the air before a storm - electric and heavy. "They're still thinking 15-20 years," he said finally.

She started to ask, 'Until what?' - but she knew. Until he was paralyzed permanently. "That's good then, right?" she asked. "It's not speeding up."

"It's not slowing down, either," he replied, face dark. He looked like he wanted to say something else, but didn't, just lifted the tea cup and sipped. Sometimes she worried that they'd taken to not voicing what they once would have said. In the beginning, it had been easier to be honest as they navigated the rapids of their new infatuation. The quarrels and doubts might have been scary, but if the boat had capsized, it would've been easy to swim away. Now, they were invested, and sometimes she just chose not to tell him things - such as her confrontation with Umbridge in the women's toilets. It would only upset him. She suspected there was something he wasn't telling her too, now, and if that worried her, she had to trust it wasn't critical. She knew what he'd say about Umbridge - she could hear him in her head - and maybe he could hear her now too.

Their last evening lacked the frenzy of that final August night four months earlier. They made love of course, but it was gentle not frantic, and they slept afterwards. There was no trip to King's Cross Station the next morning either. The Ministry had arranged a one-time open connection to the Floo Network in order to return students to Hogwarts safely. Hermione left from Cedric, Bill and Fleur's fireplace, her parents there to bid her goodbye as well. She held onto Cedric longer than anybody else, but it wasn't effusive; as before, they'd had their real goodbye the night before.

It was easier this time. It was easier to let go, to step into the fireplace. She didn't cry, unlike that autumn, although their separation would likely be longer. After what had happened to poor Katie Bell, there would be no Hogsmeade weekend in February or March this year, and she wouldn't see him again until the Easter holidays. But they'd done this once before and survived it. They could do it again. She'd learned she could live day-to-day without him.

Sometimes, that worried her.

Of course many couples - even married couples - spent time apart out of necessity. Being able to do so confidently was the mark of a mature relationship, wasn't it? Hermione had never had a long-term relationship before. She'd observed them, but living one was different. She didn't know the normal rhythms. All she knew was that things were changing. She could _feel_ it, and that left her uneasy. She'd begun to notice the change over the holidays; the old thrill wasn't there anymore. Cedric was comfortable now, not exciting. Honestly, part of her liked that. Her intrinsic nature was fixed rather than cardinal, preferring stability over excitement. She was the girl who read about adventures; she didn't have them, and sometimes, she wondered how she'd ever become part of Harry's story because really, that just wasn't _her_. She was a researcher, not a mover and shaker. So she liked that she could guess what Cedric was thinking much of the time. She liked that she could predict him. It was comforting.

Yet another part of her - the small voice of pessimistic uncertainty - wondered whether she was just falling out of love altogether? _We're only kids, _she told herself in the dark of night behind her bed curtains, _we have years of experiences left ahead of us. _What were they _doing_, playing at house and sharing a bed as if they lived together, as if they were married? She was too young to get married, even if she thought about it sometimes. She knew Cedric thought about it too, because he slipped up occasionally and said something. They mostly didn't discuss it, however, by a mutual, unspoken agreement. A future together might be something they assumed these days, but they kept it deliberately vague in the details, and the fact she'd always been mature for her age - her mother had once called her 15 going on 35 - didn't help. Her very maturity made it difficult for her to imagine how she'd be at 27, much less 37. When she tried to imagine her future, mostly she saw herself as she was now but working instead of going to school, and married instead of just dating. She'd even found somebody who seemed perfect for her.

But would he be still in 20 years? At Hermione's age, her mother had been a fiery young feminist determined to have an independent career and medical degree before 30 - but not a husband. Only six years later, she'd already changed to dentistry as more practical, and was walking down the aisle to pledge herself to Charles Granger. Five years after that, she'd had Hermione. If Hermione knew her father adored her mother and supported her career, respected her intelligence and agreed with her politics - just like Hermione could count on Cedric - the truth was her mother _had _changed between 17 and 23. For a boy.

Of course, Hermione already _had_ a boy and it hadn't changed her, but her boy had ambitions - and they weren't necessarily the same ambitions she harboured. He feared his dream of being an ambassador was too grand, and thus, arrogant. She feared that, if anything, he was _under_selling himself. Cedric could be _Minister_, if he decided he wanted to be. And unlike Harry, he might one day decide he wanted to be.

Did she want to be the Minister's wife? No, she didn't. She loved Cedric, but she was starting to realize there was more to a long-term commitment than love. Whatever the romantics said, love was not enough. Her ambitions didn't involve the public spotlight (mostly). She was happy for Cedric to have it, but she didn't want it. Yet if she stayed with him, could she avoid it? And was she ready to tie herself so thoroughly to somebody who was so thoroughly certain of where he was going in life? It might be easy to do - to drift along in his wake. But she knew she'd come to resent it, and she couldn't see Cedric giving up his dreams for her, either. Nor would she want him to. She might not be any expert on relationships, but she was pretty sure that wouldn't have a happy ending. They were both too headstrong.

These were the questions she found herself asking that January in the dead of winter while the snow blanketed the Scottish countryside and the winds howled between the castle towers. But it wasn't the first thing on her mind as term began. On Monday morning, notices appeared in house common rooms as well as the main Common Room on announcement boards**:  
><strong>

**APPARITION LESSONS**

**_If you are seventeen years of age, or will turn seventeen on or before the 31st of August next, you are eligible for a twelve-week course of Apparition Lessons from a Ministry of Magic Apparition instructor. Please sign below if you would like to participate. Cost: 12 Galleons._**

It caused quite a stir among the sixth years, who jostled each other in their eagerness to add their names to the bottom of the notice. Hermione was no less excited than the rest, and perhaps more so. If her Trace had broken in September, allowing her to perform magic outside of school, she'd be chuffed to have this last barrier removed so she no longer had to depend on Cedric or another adult to take her to places. She marked her calendar for the date of their first lesson and ducked questions all day from classmates who knew that she, like Harry, had experienced Apparition.

That evening, after dinner, while Harry had one of his lessons with Dumbledore and Ron was doing . . . whatever it was he did with Lavender . . . Hermione went to the library for research. If the storm of war hadn't yet broken, it was only a matter of time. Cedric might not talk about it much, but she knew anxiety was everywhere, tensions high as people disappeared, attacks on Muggles increased, and more and more of Voldemort's people infiltrated the Ministry or Imperiused workers.

"Some days, I think Dumbledore is the only dyke left holding back the flood," Cedric had said not long before she'd returned. "The Aurors sure as hell can't. Tonks and Scott think about a quarter to a third of the department are in Voldemort's pocket already, or otherwise under his control. Robards has already collapsed the three-year training program for new Aurors down to two, and Kingsley - he's still on assignment in Major's office - thinks there are some Muggle politicians Imperiused as well. He's worried about whether Voldemort will attempt to interfere with the General Elections when they come, although nobody's sure exactly what outcome he'd seek. It's looking like Labour will take control of the House, but I doubt that's something Voldemort wants. He'd be more likely to back the Conservatives, I'd think."

"Well, a Labour gain in seats might weaken the Lib Dems, who I suspect he likes even less."

"True, that."

Remembering their conversation made her smile now as she automatically went to "their" table beneath the Butterfly Woman. The novelty of being able to discuss Muggle politics with Cedric hadn't worn off yet and she'd been amazed at how much he'd learned in only half a year, and not just about politics. His knowledge of Muggle life and his facility with Muggle technology exceeded that of some Muggle-born wizards and she'd have been terribly proud, if it hadn't made him such a high-profile target. She kept her fears to herself, just as he didn't pester her about how dangerous it was for a Muggle-born witch to cosy up to Harry Potter.

Sitting down in the nearly deserted library, she pulled out the new, large blank book she'd bought over the holidays. She intended it as a repository for spells she didn't have in her textbooks but thought might prove useful. Useful for _what_, she still wasn't certain. Right now, the Order of the Phoenix seemed focused on keeping Harry safe for as long as possible, allowing him to finish his education, but ever since Harry had told her about that Prophecy, she'd been dead certain they'd eventually have to go on the offensive against Voldemort. Yet if Dumbledore had taken Harry under his wing for private lessons, he _didn't_ seem to be teaching him any of the high-level defensive magic Hermione had expected. Ergo, _somebody_ had to learn some pragmaticspells because, heaven knew, neither Harry nor Ron could cast even a healing charm.

By the next morning, however, she had a new research project. Harry took both her and Ron out to the snowy (and thus deserted) courtyard for the break between classes, confiding what he'd learned from Dumbledore the night before, and explaining Dumbledore's assignment for him to get the real memory from Slughorn.

Ron seemed unconcerned, "He loves you - won't refuse you anything, will he? You're his little Potions Prince. Just hang back after class this afternoon and ask him."

Hermione resisted sighing in open frustration. In her opinion, Ron wasn't taking any of this with proper seriousness. Lavender's air-headedness was rubbing off on him, making him even worse than usual. Shooting him a glare, she said, "I don't know. He must be determined to hide what really happened if Dumbledore couldn't get it out of him."

Harry nodded, albeit reluctantly, although Ron scoffed. "Always such a pessimist, Hermione. Slughorn probably just didn't want to tell Dumbledore because he knew Dumbledore would _judge_ him." He glared at her. "Sort of like somebody else around here."

"Don't be so sensitive, Ron. Just because you insist on making a spectacle of yourself in the common room . . . "

"Oh, yeah! Like snogging Lavender is so much worse than shagging Cedric! At least we keep our clothes on!"

"Ron!"

"Time out!" Harry snapped, glaring from one of them to the other. "Can we maybe get back to the subject - which isn't snogging or shagging?"

Both Hermione and Ron blushed. "Sorry," Hermione muttered, then added, "Horcruxes . . . horcruxes . . . I've never even heard of them."

"You haven't?" Harry seemed both surprised and disappointed. "I was hoping . . . "

"They must be really advanced Dark Magic, or why would Voldemort have wanted to know about them? I think it's going to be difficult to get the information. You should think about strategy - the best way to approach Professor Slughorn - "

"I still think he ought to just hang back after Potions this afternoon - "

"Oh, well, of course, Won-Won!" She spun on Ron. "When has your judgment ever been faulty?"

"Hey! I'm the one who wins at chess - !"

"This isn't chess, Ron! It's _psychology_! Not something you normally excel in!" and she stalked away, although she couldn't have said why she was suddenly so angry. Perhaps it was just how cavalier he'd been about it, or perhaps it was the fact he'd brought up the apparently common gossip about her private life. Whatever she and Cedric did, it was nobody else's business - unlike Ron who made certain the Gryffindor common room was at least half full before putting on a groping show with Lavender.

Potions was uncomfortable that day, seeing as Hermione had to share her desk with Ron and Harry and she wasn't inclined to forgive Ron just yet, and when Harry shot her a mildly disapproving glance, Harry was added to the list of people she didn't want to talk to that day, so she moved closer to Ernie. As it turned out, the lesson involved understanding the _theory_, not just mindlessly following directions, and Hermione was unduly pleased because it was time for Harry to learn that he actually had to _understand_ something. If he didn't, he was going to wind up making a critical error at the wrong moment. She couldn't resist saying, "It's a shame the Prince won't be able to help you much with this, Harry. You have to understand the principles involved this time. No shortcuts or cheats!"

The annoyed expression on Harry's face made her regret her words - but not regret them enough to repeat the incantation aloud so that Harry and Ron could hear it. It really was time for them to learn an important lesson. "Tough love," her mother would call it. Life didn't favour cheaters, and as much as she respected and cared for Harry, he needed to find that out. In fact, it was _because_ she respected and cared for him that she wasn't going to protect him now. He was extremely clever, just occasionally lazy.

Nonetheless, and whatever her self-proclaimed motivations, she couldn't hide a small smirk as she filled her vials with the separated potion and watched as Slughorn hurried away from an inspection of Harry's cauldron, coughing from the bad smell. Expression harried, Harry bent over his potion book as if it would provide him with an answer even as a glum-faced Ron sighed dramatically and tried staring at Hermione with puppy-dog eyes. She ignored them both and worked on her bottling, only to be startled as Harry abruptly dropped the book on the tabletop and hurried over to the supply cabinet and Slughorn called, "Two minutes left, everyone!"

_Oh, surely not_, she thought to herself, finishing her sixteenth bottle in a rush. Harry wasn't going to pull another fast one. He was not! She just couldn't bear it, and she tried to hide the tears threatening, which made it difficult to get the stopper in.

It wasn't fair! She worked so hard, studied so hard all the time. This was what she had to offer - who she _was_. Her intelligence. But Harry didn't need her anymore . . . She had to show him this time, had to prove that cheating wasn't the answer and this "Half-Blood Prince" wasn't his salvation.

Slughorn called time, but she pretended not to have heard, trying to get just a few more of the fifty-two ingredients for her antidote bottled. She hadn't been able to complete it all, but she'd got further than anybody else in the class. She could see that much. Surely, this time she'd be praised. She ignored Harry's nervous look as Slughorn finally made his way around to their table. He inspected Ernie and Ron's potions first, struggling not to make a face, then - annoyingly - moved on to Harry before Hermione. But, she tried to tell herself, that was probably because he was saving hers for last. It would be a little humiliating for him to praise her, then move on to Harry's disaster. "And you, Harry. What have you got to show me?"

Harry didn't indicate his cauldron. Instead, he held out his open palm on which sat a wrinkly . . . what was that? A rock? He was offering Slughorn a _rock_?

For several breaths, Slughorn just stared, then - abruptly - he threw back his head and started laughing, startling everybody in the class. "You've got nerve, boy! Oh, you're like your mother, . . . well, I can't fault you . . . a bezoar would certainly act as an antidote to all these potions!"

Hermione felt her jaw drop as Slughorn continued to sing Harry's praises. A bezoar? He had . . . that was . . . how DARE he? Slughorn didn't even look in her direction, didn't even notice how far she'd got - he just beamed at Harry as if the very sun shown out of his backside. "You thought of a bezoar all by _yourself_, did you?" she snarled, unable to help it. "Seems like cheating to me."

"That's the individual spirit a real potion-maker needs!" Slughorn admonished her before Harry could say anything. He still didn't even look at her results and she wanted to fling it all across the room. Instead, she ignored everything and everyone as she packed up.

What was the bloody point? Why bother at all? Harry obviously didn't need her anymore. She wished Cedric was there - then didn't. In her current mood, all her doubts about everything boiled up like disturbed sludge in a cauldron. Cedric would no doubt tell her she was being petty and irrational, but Cedric didn't seem to think there was anything so terribly wrong with Harry's potions book either. He'd even suggested she take a look at it! "No harm in tips from a former student - at least not if they actually work."

"But he's not learning the theory! I thought you were going to talk to him about that!"

"I did."

If he had, Harry obviously hadn't listened. And Hermione was too sick at heart even to go down to dinner, or to hang out in the Gryffindor common room after. And she sure as hell didn't intend to spend that night in the library. Instead, she went to the Hogwarts Common Room with the Daydream charm the twins had given her. Tonight, she needed a little fantasy, although she made certain to find a couch off in a corner and then pretend to sleep. She wasn't too sure about the "drooling" on the warning label - or anything else she might do unconsciously.

She was well into her third turn with the charm featuring an ambulatory Cedric (not that she'd ever confess that to him), when she felt somebody shaking her shoulder. Starting and sitting up, she started to snarl at whoever had interrupted her, only to swallow the words when she found herself looking up at a contrite-faced Ron who held out a small tray with food. "You weren't at supper," he said. "Stopped by the kitchens and got this from Dobby."

Hermione just blinked, glanced past him, then back up to his face. Harry wasn't with him. Neither was Lavender. It was just Ron, and both confused and cautious, she swung her legs over the side of the couch to take the tray like the peace-offering it probably was. "I didn't feel like eating," she confessed, studying what he'd brought her. She was a bit surprised to see it consisted of fresh fruit and sliced vegetables with a dip, along with some bread - her sort of dinner, not Ron's. Either Ron paid better attention than she credited, or he hadn't specified and Dobby had assembled the snack.

Ron seated himself beside her on the couch and rubbed his hands together as if nervous. "Lavender said she heard you crying in your dormitory earlier." Humiliated, Hermione stiffened, but Ron hurried on, "Don't be angry. She wasn't making fun. She and Parvati were worried. And, well, everybody's a bit put out with Harry tonight. We know the whole bit with the bezoar wasn't really on. Harry knows it too, I think."

She felt her face harden and started to set the tray on the floor. "Oh - don't defend him!"

He gripped the tray and held it on her lap. "Hermione, I'm not. I was just saying . . . "

"Saying what? That I'm as good as useless now? That neither of you need me anymore? That I haven't got anything to offer?"

Ron's expression hovered somewhere between shock and mild annoyance. "Hermione - what are you on about?"

With the food in her lap, she couldn't stand but did throw up her hands. "Harry's Slughorn's darling these days, and you're always with Lavender. I never even see you anymore!"

His lips thinned. "Well, we could say the same thing about you and Cedric last year."

"I still hung out with you! I made an effort to!"

"With him tagging along, sure." But abruptly, he let the irritation fall off his face. "This is stupid," he said. "You and me quarrelling all the time. Look, last year I was jealous - I admit it. But Diggory - he turned out to be an okay bloke. He stood by you. And now I've got somebody myself. Couldn't you at least be happy for me?"

Hermione blinked. For once, Ron sounded more mature than she did, and it brought colour to her cheeks. She looked down at the food he'd brought - that _he_ had brought, not Harry. And he was the one sitting here, worried because she'd not been at dinner, and because Lavender had said she'd been crying. Now, her eyes were leaking again. She wiped away a tear and muttered, "I'm sorry. I _am_ happy for you. Honestly, I am." She felt Ron slide an arm around her shoulders and pull her in against his side, solid and warm. "If Lavender makes you happy, Ron, then I'm happy." She remembered what Cedric had said; Ron was trying to make her jealous - and that Cedric might have been less gracious about it all than Ron was being.

"So," she said after a minute, picking up a pear slice. "Did Harry talk to Professor Slughorn?"

"Yeah - didn't go so well. He told me later. Slughorn blew him off, wouldn't tell him anything." Ron's smile was sheepish. "I suppose you were right about that."

Hermione smiled back and squeezed his knee gently. "Too bad it couldn't have gone like you thought it would."

Ron shrugged. "Well, yeah, but he's going to have to think of something else now."

"You're not going to help him strategize?" she asked, only half-teasing.

"Nah." Ron shook his head. "I'm a bit shirty about the bezoar too. Let him stew for a week or so, then I'll give it some thought."

Hermione laughed. "Don't let him stew too long. Harry sulking is a bit annoying."

"No kidding. In the meantime, you think you can find out anything about these horcruxes?"

"I'll have a look in the library tomorrow." She picked up a carrot and took a bite. "But not tonight."

Ron let her go and leaned over to pick up the Daydream Charm box that she'd left on the floor beside the couch, studying it with a frown. "So are these things any good?"

Hermione struggled to conceal her blush. "Well, it's not as if I'd have bought one, but . . . "

* * *

><p>"You'll be brilliant, mate."<p>

"But what if I'm not?"

"Well, then you wait for the next time you're up and be brilliant that time."

Ed just glared at Scott, who raised both hands and said, "What? I'm just being practical."

- which was true. Trust Scott to be the practical one. Somewhere in the distance, a whistle blew three sharp bursts. "Five minute warning," Ed said, grabbing his broom, his navy blue robes swirling around his ankles. "I have to go. See you lot afterwards." He left the dressing room.

Peter, Scott and Cedric left too, making their way up to the high seats Ed had been given for his family and a few select friends. Unlike a Muggle stadium, there was no disabled access, so Cedric had to Transform and fly to his seat, arriving there before Scott and Peter. Ed's mother and sisters were seated already, looking as nervous as Ed, but also excited. Lisa, the elder, grabbed Cedric's arm as soon as he'd returned to human form, almost knocking him off his crutches. He sat down before he fell down. She settled beside him. "How is he?"

"Nervous," Cedric replied.

Lisa sighed and let go, shoving her hands between her knees instead and jiggling in her seat. "He'll do fine."

"I'm sure he will."

Ed's step-father returned shortly after, and Scott and Peter finally made their way up to their seats too. Everyone was tense, except perhaps Scott; this was Ed's first played match for Puddlemere United. Despite having been on the team formally since the summer, as a reserve, he spent most matches on the bench. This match today was only the second time he'd played, and the first he'd started. When playing a lesser team like today's Appleby Arrows, the coach liked to slip in a reserve player for a whole match in order to eyeball their strengths, weaknesses, and endurance.

Cedric would have liked to say it was an exciting game, but it wasn't really. The Arrows in their sky blue weren't on a par with Puddlemere, who crushed them. The match lasted barely two hours. Cedric thought Ed did well at least, rising to the occasion. That was his great gift. He might not be the best self-starter, but when handed the Quaffle, he could fly with it - as he'd shown when he'd taken over the captaincy of Hufflepuff, and when he'd led the revolt against Umbridge. Likewise after today, Cedric didn't think he'd be a reserve Chaser for too many years.

After the game, the four former Denmates went out to a local pub for drinks. They hadn't been all together since Cedric's birthday party the previous autumn that had ended with Dumbledore's little "chat" about the Order. In the end, all three had joined, which hadn't really surprised Cedric. He'd known Scott would leap at the chance, and Ed. Even Peter had thrown his hat into the ring, although he persisted in saying he didn't have much to offer. Cedric thought him underestimating himself. His main contribution had been keeping up with gossip in Diagon Alley, where he worked as a paralegal for one of the Wizarding solicitors. It was a good job for gossip gathering as he heard a great deal working on cases, and if he kept his promise of confidentiality for the most part, there were a few cases that he'd brought to the attention of the Order - things he suspected had Death Eater instigation. They usually involved acquiring property, or suits against Muggle-born Wizards for supposed trespass of the 1692 International Statute of Secrecy.

"There's even talk," Peter said now after his second pint, "of introducing a bill that would outlaw marriages between wizards and Muggles."

"Who'd try such a thing?" Ed exclaimed. His mother's mother had been a Muggle.

"I hear it's coming from Pius Thicknesse."

"That big bag of bigoted wind? Muggles already take a vow of silence! What more do people want?"

"Well, I think that's obvious, me," Scott said. "You Know Who wants to get rid of half-bloods and Muggle-borns altogether, and he's using proxies to promote his campaign. It's already getting harder and harder to get hired at the Ministry if you're Muggle-born."

"There are anti-discrimination laws - " Ed began.

" - and a good two-dozen ways of getting around them," Scott finished. "Nobody ever _says_ the reason somebody wasn't hired is due to blood, but the pattern is pretty clear." Cedric could only nod; he'd noticed similar biases. Scott thumbed at him. "I'm surprised Ced here still has a job, given the current anti-Muggle feeling."

"I'm useful," Cedric told them, finishing his beer. "And whatever else he might be, Scrimgeour isn't a bigot. Some of the other departments discriminate but his doesn't."

"Robards doesn't either," Scott added. "But I hear Magical Transportation has laid off four workers since November, three without recourse to pensions, and every one of them was Muggle-born or married to Muggles."

"Reasons given?" Peter asked, clearly interested. Cedric thought he might be mulling over the possibility of a suit.

"Incompetence mostly. I think one was accused of granting unauthorized Floo access. The investigation went through the Improper Use of Magic Office, not Aurors, but scuttlebutt says she was set up."

"Framed?"

Scott shrugged. "Or maybe just bribed by an undercover officer. Anyway, Hopkirk had to send the termination letter, but she's dubious about the whole thing."

Cedric called for another pint and considered this new information, given what Harry had told him about Voldemort's past. Harry hadn't said he couldn't share it, at least not with Order members so he leaned over the table and said softly, "Voldemort's father was a Muggle named Tom Riddle - not a wizard."

Peter and Ed looked gobsmacked, their jaws dropped. Scott seemed unsurprised, so perhaps he already knew. "You mean . . . you mean he's _not_ a pureblood?" Peter asked.

"Nope, he's not." None of them inquired as to how Cedric knew this, thankfully. "Supposedly, his mother used a love potion on his father - made him fall for, marry, and even get his mother pregnant before the potion wore off. Then he left them. She was the last of Slytherin's line, she and her brother. Her father was furious over the marriage and threw her out of the house. She had no skills - I gather she was, well, sort of messed up in the head. To stay pure, that family must have had some serious inbreeding. Anyway, she wound up at an orphanage, where she gave birth. There must have been complications because she died not long after. She gave the baby his father's name - that's why Voldemort got rid of it. He didn't want any Muggle ties." Cedric frowned at his empty glass. The barkeeper still hadn't triggered the Refill Charm. "Pureblood women sometimes have a hard time carrying children to term or giving birth. Inbreeding again." There the charm went. Brown liquid bubbled up from the glass's bottom until it was an inch from the rim, then stopped. Cedric took a long pull.

The other three chewed over this new information, but still didn't ask him how he knew - even Scott who was usually nosey. Instead, Scott leaned his elbows on the table and said, "I finally saw Vol- Voldemort" - he forced himself to say the name - "with my own eyes."

They all looked at him. Even Cedric had only seen him once, in the graveyard.

"Ugly bastard," Scott went on. "Skin like a snake's belly, red eyes slit-pupiled. He's got no nose, like Ced said - but damn scary. You'd think somebody who looked like that would just be laughable but he's not. He's not." Scott shivered.

"What happened?" Ed asked.

"It started out as a minor skirmish, not all that important, which is why the trainees were allowed to engage and weren't all herded away. Later, Robards said he thought it was all a set-up, meant to seem minor. Right in the middle of the fighting, Voldemort himself Apparated in. He took out three Aurors and four trainees in less than a minute."

Cedric felt his own jaw drop now. "Why didn't you say anything?"

Scott shrugged. "Didn't want to worry any of you. We'd _all_ have been dead if not for Anu Patil." Scott glanced around at them. "Remember those twins two years below us? One in Ravenclaw, one in Gryffindor? He's their older brother. Hasn't been an Auror that long, but he's something to see in action. He uses spells his grandmother taught him - Old Sanskrit. They're things Voldemort's unfamiliar with, so he didn't know how to block them. We got away because of Anu. Robards has ordered him to teach everything he knows to the rest of us. He said he has to get permission from his grandmother but Robards supposedly told him, and I quote - 'Screw permission. Teach those damn spells and get forgiveness instead. It's easier.'" Scott snorted. "He's got a point. So yeah, we're memorizing spells in Sanskrit. Hell of a language, let me tell you. But at least we've got something Voldemort doesn't have."

"It won't take him long to figure it out," Peter said. "It's not like England doesn't have ties to India."

"True enough, but it's a leg up in the meantime, and maybe we can find somebody else to help out. Old Celtic spells are no good - he'll know them the same as we would. But Robards is sending an embassy to the Rom in central Europe to ask them for help."

Pressing the side of his pint glass to his mouth, Cedric pondered Scott's story as Peter said, "Aren't the Rom a pretty insular lot?"

"Robards isn't holding out a lot of hope, but it's worth a try. With Voldemort's exclusivist policies, I doubt the Rom would side with him. Gypsies have been treated like the pimple on Europe's arse for centuries. We'll be lucky if they even give us the time of day."

"And if they do, they'll probably hustle us," Ed said.

Scott just shrugged. "They have their own code of honour. But you'd think at least the French would help. Or the Germans."

"The _French_?" Peter snorted. "When pigs fly the French'll help. We saved their arses against Grindelwald, but they'll leave us hanging now."

Cedric considered arguing with him for Fleur's sake, but didn't. Peter had no love for the French, or most of Europe, for that matter. If he were a Muggle, he'd be a Eurosceptic. "Tell Robards to remind the Rom of Hitler," Cedric said now to Scott. "Voldemort has similar ideas to Grindelwald, who shared Hitler's ideology." The other three were looking at him.

"Hitler?" Scott asked.

"The Muggles' Second World War? Some have said Hitler was just Grindelwald's Muggle puppet. Anyway, Hitler put the gypsies into camps right along with the Jews, and Voldemort won't _really_ trust any form of magic that isn't ours.

"For that matter, somebody should talk to Rose Zeller's mum. She has some position in Israel's Ministry. Jewish magic is arguably as old as Indo-Aryan. Rose tells me the magicians of Simon bar Kochbah helped drive the legions out of Jerusalem in the winter of 134, and destroyed the entire Twenty-Second legion in the Judean hills. If they could take out the Romans, I think they can handle a few Death Eaters." His eyes narrowed. An idea was forming in his head. "I'll send a couple of letters myself. All these European magics, even the Jewish, are ones Voldemort may know at least _something_ about. Supposedly he knows more about magic than even Dumbledore, even if he's not as strong a warlock. But I know a type of magic he'll be completely unfamiliar with."

"What? Martian?" Scott asked, half laughing.

"Almost, as far as he's concerned." Cedric sipped beer. "Ojibway." He looked around at the other three, then locked eyes with Scott, remembering their earlier conversation about Voldemort's long-term goals. "We can't win this on our own. Britain will have to call for help, and the rest of Europe had better pay attention, because Voldemort certainly won't stop at our shores if he wins."

* * *

><p>"Ron was poisoned!"<p>

It was Lavender Brown, shrieking and wringing her hands in full-scale panic mode as she came through the portrait hole into the Gryffindor common room. Hermione had been up early that Saturday morning, already to breakfast and back. Now, she sat in front of the couch, going through yet another pile of books to take careful notes on useful spells for her little journal and waiting for Ron to get up and come downstairs so she could give him his birthday present.

"Poisoned?" she said, her whole body seizing. "What? How?"

"I don't know! I just saw them taking him up to the hospital wing and - "

Hermione didn't wait to hear more, abandoning her books to race out. She made it up to the infirmary double doors only to find Harry brooding outside them, hands stuffed in pockets. Grabbing him by the shoulders, she shouted, "What happened?"

He told her how Ron must have eaten the chocolate cauldrons that Romilda Vane had given Harry for Christmas with their love potion -

"Didn't I tell you to watch out for her, Harry!"

"Well, yeah, and I did! _I_ didn't eat them! I just shoved them in my trunk, then when I was getting the Marauder's Map out of it this morning, Ron grabbed them by accident - thought they were a present that had fallen off his bed."

Hermione resisted throwing up her hands. "Why didn't you _destroy_ them when Romilda gave them to you, you muppet?"

"I don't know; I was in a hurry that night." His expression was mulish and she realized all of a sudden how white-faced he looked. "I didn't mean this to happen! Ron almost _died_, Hermione!"

"Of course you didn't mean it." Hermione forced herself to calm down and stop yelling at Harry. She put an arm around his shoulders. "All right - what happened after that? Romilda's potion wasn't bad, was it?"

"No - it worked, all right. I took Ron to see Slughorn, hoping Slughorn could help me with an antidote, which he did, but then Ron was really depressed - love-potion hangovers must be a bear. So Slughorn opened this bottle of mead that he'd meant to give Dumbledore for Christmas, to toast Ron's birthday. Ron had a sip and then just . . . it was awful." His face looked haunted. "He turned blue and started choking and twitching and stuff. Slughorn didn't seem to know what to do, just froze up, so I ran to his potion kit and grabbed that bezoar I gave him that day in Potions class. He still had it in there."

On impulse, Hermione hugged Harry hard. "Thank God," she muttered. If at the time, she'd been furious with Harry for pulling that stunt, now she was infinitely grateful. He'd known just what to do to save Ron. They clung to each other for a minute, then he let her go. "Slughorn went for help, and McGonagall came back with Madam Pomfrey, who says Ron'll have to stay here for a week and keep taking essence of rue."

It seemed he'd barely finished telling Hermione what had happened when Ginny arrived and he had to repeat it all, then Dumbledore showed up and took Harry aside. They talked a long while. Hermione sat with Ginny against the wall, one arm around her, and waited. Ginny was tense but not panicking like Lavender had, although Ginny was also sensible - unlike Lavender - and Ron was out of immediate danger. "Who would want to poison Ron?" Ginny asked, over and over.

"I don't know," Hermione kept replying. Two things were spinning through her head. First, why Ron? And second, if Ron, was she next? What would Cedric say - or her parents? Could she avoid telling at least her parents? (She reckoned Cedric was going to hear about it one way or another.)

Finally Dumbledore let Harry go and he came back over to sit beside them, only to have Ginny grab and hug him like Hermione had earlier. "Thankyouthankyouthankyou!" she said. Harry's expression was shocked but also, Hermione thought, rather pleased. His own arms were around Ginny, clutching her close but not too close, although his expression said he wanted to squeeze her tightly. _Well, isn't that interesting? _Hermione thought.

The three of them sat on the floor then and went over and over what had happened, what it might mean, and theorized on who would want to poison Ron. They even forgot lunch. Dumbledore had gone to contact Ron's parents, and only a little before Madam Pomfrey appeared at the double doors to allow them in, the twins arrived. Apparently they'd been in Hogsmeade looking over Zonko's, thinking about buying the place and had planned their trip for Ron's birthday so they could see him. "Not how I'd expected to hand over his present," George muttered.

"Yeah, I thought he'd at least be conscious," Fred agreed.

The five of them made their way over to the bed where Ron lay. "Now, don't disturb him! He needs his rest!" Madam Pomfrey warned before leaving them there.

Hermione thought he looked terrible, all pale with blue circles under his eyes. He was the only patient in the infirmary at the moment. The windows were shuttered and candles lit the place. A little gingerly, Ginny sat down on his bedside and brushed hair out of his face. "I just don't get it," Fred said softly. "Why Ron? And you're _sure_ the poison was in the mead?"

"Yes," Harry said. "Slughorn poured it out - "

"Would he have been able to slip something into Ron's glass without you seeing?"

"Probably," Harry answered. "But why would _Slughorn_ want to poison Ron? And why then? He wasn't exactly expecting us this morning."

Fred frowned. "Well, maybe he mixed up the glasses by mistake, Harry."

George was nodding. "He could have been after you."

"Why would he want to poison Harry?" Ginny asked. "He thinks Harry walks on water!"

"That could be a front. There are loads of people who'd love to poison Harry, with You Know Who at the top of the list."

"So you think Slughorn's a Death Eater?" Harry asked. Hermione could tell from his tone that he was dubious.

"Well, anything's possible," Fred said.

"I doubt it," Hermione said now, settling down beside Ginny. "For one thing, Harry said that Slughorn was on the run from Voldemort when Dumbledore found him." She ignored their collective winces. "I don't think he'd willingly join their ranks now." Harry was nodding.

"Maybe he's under an Imperius Curse?" George suggested.

"Or Slughorn himself was the original target," Ginny said.

"Who'd want to kill Slughorn?" George asked.

"Dumbledore reckons Voldemort wanted Slughorn on his side," Harry explained. "Like Hermione said, he was in hiding for a year before he came to Hogwarts. And . . . and maybe Voldemort wants him out of the way, maybe he thinks he could be valuable to Dumbledore."

"But you said Slughorn had been planning to give that bottle to Dumbledore for Christmas," Ginny reminded him. "So the poison could just as easily have been for Dumbledore."

"Then the poisoner doesn't know Slughorn well," Hermione said. "Anybody who did would realize Slughorn would want to keep something that tasty for himself."

They didn't get any further because Hagrid showed up. He must have come straight from the forest because he was muddy and wet and carrying a crossbow. His platter-sized free hand was flapping in distress. Harry had to go over the whole story again for him, then Hagrid asked all the same questions the five of them had just been asking - who, why, and for what purpose? "Someone couldn' have a grudge against the Gryffindor Quidditch team, could they?" Hagrid asked. "Firs' Katie, now Ron . . . "

It was a rather ridiculous suggestion, Hermione thought, but didn't say so. "I can't see anyone trying to bump off a Quidditch team," George told him.

"Wood might've done the Slytherins if he could've got away with it," Fred said.

Hermione resisted rolling her eyes. "Well, I sincerely doubt it's Quidditch," she said, voice dry. "But" - her mind was turning - "I do think the two events are related."

"How d'you work that one out?" Fred asked.

"Well, firstly, both attacks ought to have been fatal but weren't, mostly due to sheer dumb luck. And secondly, neither the poison nor the necklace seems to have reached the person who was meant to be killed." The more she'd thought about it, the more she felt certain Ron had not been the intended target. "But that makes the person behind it even more dangerous in a way, because he - or she - doesn't seem to care how many people get finished off on the way to the victim."

But at least it meant she probably wasn't in any more danger than she had been before.

Ron's parents arrived then, and Mrs. Weasley grabbed Harry like Ginny had earlier, although Harry didn't look quite as thrilled. "Oh, Harry, what can we say? You saved Ginny . . . you saved Arthur . . . now you've saved Ron . . . "

Hermione turned to Fred and George, speaking softly, "Don't mention this to Cedric, all right?"

Fred's eyebrow went up. "Why not?"

"He'll worry about me, and he doesn't need to. Ron wasn't the target here. And I wouldn't be either."

Fred and George both just eyed her. Finally George said, "Well, he's got good reason to worry, Hermione. First Katie and now Ron - Hogwarts doesn't seem a lot safer than outside the gates."

It was a sentiment that Hagrid echoed just a few minutes later. Madam Pomfrey had arrived to remind them that only six visitors were allowed in at a time, so Harry decided to leave Ron to his family and Hermione went with him, with Hagrid trailing after. "It's terrible," Hagrid muttered into his beard as they headed for the marble staircase. "All this new security, an' kids are still gettin' hurt . . . Dumbledore's worried sick . . . He don' say much, but I can tell . . . "

"Hasn't he got any ideas?" Hermione asked. A worried Dumbledore worried her even more.

"I s'pect he's got hundreds of ideas, brain like his, but he doesn't know who sent that necklace nor put poison in that wine, or they'd've bin caught, wouldn' they? Wha' worries me" - Hagrid had lowered his voice considerably and was glancing around - "is how long Hogwarts can stay open if kids are bein' attacked. Chamber o' Secrets all over again, isn' it? There'll be panic, more parents takin' their kids outta school, an' nex' thing yeh know, the board o' governors'll be talkin' about shuttin us up fer good."

"Surely not?" Hermione asked, mind racing. If Hogwarts was closed, what would stop her parents from doing something drastic - like leaving the country? They'd let her come back here because Cedric had argued she was safer wherever Dumbledore was. Of course, she was also of age now where she hadn't been that summer. She could do magic of her own, and she wouldn't - couldn't - let her parents take her away from Harry. (Or Cedric.) Harry needed her.

She would have to write to Cedric about this herself. She didn't trust the twins not to tell him at their first opportunity, even if she'd asked them not to. In fact, that might have been a mistake in itself, convincing them that it was somehow their solemn duty to inform Cedric and make him worry about her even more than she knew he already did, just as she worried about him - another of those things they didn't talk about anymore because what was the point?

Turning to Harry and Hagrid, she said, "Listen, I need to go and write a letter. I should . . . I should tell Cedric what happened before somebody else does." And she scampered off.

By the time she returned to the Gryffindor common room (and after curfew), there was a lot of discussion concerning Ron's condition. Lavender was no longer wailing and ringing her hands; instead she appeared shirty over being "left out and overlooked" all day. "I mean, I _am_ his girlfriend!" she said over and over, just in case somebody had forgotten. Hermione resisted rolling her eyes and let Harry draw her off alone into a corner.

"Between her and McLaggen," he muttered, "I think _I _may poison somebody!"

"What's McLaggen doing?"

"Going on about Quidditch. With Ron in hospital, he's insisting on taking Ron's place as Keeper, and since he was sort of runner-up, I don't reckon I can argue too much. But to make it worse, he wants to discuss strategy with me. Like he knows anything about Quidditch strategy!"

Harry sounded indignant, and although Hermione felt sympathetic, she was also dead on her feet and suppressed a yawn. "I'm sorry," she said. "Tell McLaggen to put a sock in it. I think I'll go on up to bed now - "

"Well, actually, that's not what I wanted to talk to you about." He paused and met her eyes, lowering his voice even more. "Dumbledore argued with Snape. Hagrid overheard it."

"What did they argue about?" She was curious despite Harry's eternal suspicions regarding of Snape.

"Well, Hagrid said that Dumbledore asked all the Heads of Houses to look into what happened with the necklace, and if he didn't get to hear exactly what Snape and Dumbledore were talking about, he did hear Snape tell Dumbledore that he 'didn't want to do it anymore.' Dumbledore told him that he'd agreed to do it, and that was that. Hagrid thought Snape sounded overworked, but I think it has to do with those investigations. Snape doesn't want to look further into it because he knows Malfoy is behind it and - "

"Oh, for heaven's sake!" she interrupted with a hiss, voice equally low. "Harry, that's reaching even for you."

"Reaching!"

"Yes, and keep your voice down." She glanced around the room. People were shooting them looks, but so far, they were being let alone. "The 'it' Professor Snape doesn't want to do could be almost anything. Don't jump to conclusions."

"But they were arguing! Despite the fact Dumbledore's always saying how much he trusts Snape."

"And that's very interesting, I agree. I just don't think we can make a reasonable guess what it is Professor Snape doesn't want to keep doing."

Harry clearly didn't agree, still certain it involved Malfoy, but he let her go. Hermione couldn't help mulling it over too, wondering what Dumbledore had asked of Snape. Did he know about this 'Unbreakable Vow' of Snape's? Could Snape be regretting having made it, whatever it was?

The next day, she received an owl from Cedric:

_ Dearest Poppet,_

_ After getting your letter, I spoke to Arthur Weasley over lunch today. We both agree that Ron probably wasn't the intended target, as you said. But we also agree that Harry very well might have been. Or at least, both accidental victims are uncomfortably close to Harry in one way or another. I know you're being careful, but please - eat and drink nothing that's not from a common table and be careful what you touch . . . We know this person, whoever it is, works in secret and indirectly, which is why both attempts have gone awry. It's impossible to watch everything, but take no chances. I'm enclosing a special charm the twins concocted. I may not always approve of their methods, but I trust their skills a hell of a lot more than most things being sold on the street right now. The charm is supposed to whistle in the presence of Dark Magic. I'm also including a bezoar since I don't know what happened to the one that saved Ron. Keep both things with you at all times. If something happened to you, I wouldn't be able to bear it._

_ I love you,  
>Cedric<em>

She opened the small package that had come with the letter. Inside was the promised, wrinkled nut of a bezoar (and she didn't want to imagine what it had cost him; she knew they weren't cheap). There was also the promised charm in the form of a small Austrian red crystal heart on a long silver chain. She could wear it under her blouse. Slipping it over her head, the cold stone came to rest right between her breasts. She reached up to lay a hand over it.

* * *

><p><strong>Notes:<strong>For Americans readers - 'dyke' is the alternative and slightly more British spelling of dike, not a double-entendre. :-)


	13. Charlie

"The Room of Requirement!" Harry exclaimed, smacking himself on the head with his potions book. "That's where he's been sneaking off to! That's where he's doing . . . whatever he's doing!"

Oh, no! Off he went again on a rant about Malfoy and his mysterious 'mission' from Voldemort. Desperate for back-up, Hermione glanced at Ron, who was busy trying to sop up the ink she'd just accidentally spilled on his essay. Guilty, she snatched the parchment from him and used a Vanishing spell Cedric had taught her to clean it up. Ron sighed in relief.

Hermione listened with only half an ear as Harry mulled over the information that Dobby and Kreacher had brought, tossing out theories about the Room of Requirement and why it didn't show up on his map - and how he might get into it anyway. Hermione used her focus on the essay to avoid looking at him as she (gently) explained that he probably wouldn't be able to catch Malfoy in the room itself. Malfoy had got in to expose the D.A. because he'd known what the room became and could therefore ask it for that manifestation. Harry had no idea what Malfoy was doing in there, so just knowing he went there wouldn't help.

Harry brushed off her objections and threw his arms wide. "How great is this?" He was grinning ear-to-ear. "We know where Malfoy's going! We've got him cornered now!"

"Yeah, it's great," Ron said, accepting the cleaned essay from Hermione. He didn't sound that enthusiastic.

"But what's all this about him going up there with a 'variety of students'?" Hermione asked, finally turning her attention back to Harry. "How many people are in on this . . . whatever it is? You wouldn't think he'd trust lots of them to know what he's doing . . . "

"Yeah that is weird. I heard him telling Crabbe it wasn't Crabbe's business what he was doing, so what's he telling all these . . . all these . . . "

He trailed off as a very strange look crossed his face and he stared into the fire. Abruptly, he went on, "God, I've been stupid. It's obvious, isn't it? There was a great vat of it down in the dungeon . . . he could have nicked some any time during that lesson . . . "

"Nicked what?" Ron asked.

"Polyjuice Potion - he stole some of the Polyjuice Potion Slughorn showed us in our first Potions lesson . . . There aren't a whole variety of students standing guard for Malfoy, it's just Crabbe and Goyle as usual." Harry leapt to his feet. "It all makes sense!"

And he was off again on one of his wild theories - or at least they often sounded wild, although Hermione had seen before how he could make these ingenious leaps. She envied it a little, and that envy made her bite her tongue now. She didn't doubt her own intelligence; it was her one virtue in which she had total confidence. Yet she'd come to realize there were _types _of intelligence. She was a researcher. She knew how to find facts and then construct theories from them. Cedric was a visionary with the most amazing ability to draw parallels and find points of similarity. By contrast, Ron was a pragmatist; he saw and understood the 'obvious' that she and Cedric forgot or overlooked in their flights of fancy. But Harry . . . Harry could fill in the blanks. Give him a set of imperfect clues and he could still build a theory - but in a completely different way than Hermione, which was why she often found herself questioning him. Hermione built theories from data. Harry didn't _need_ data - or not complete data. He had an uncanny ability to discern what was missing, his mind making connections that seemed more like fancy than logic. Yet annoyingly - or astonishingly - he was often right.

But sometimes he was wrong. His very ability to guess the truth inclined him to trust that talent too much. Cedric had the same personal certainty about his ideas, but he was older and had made more mistakes, which had taught him a caution that Hermione wished Harry had more of. Even so, she was reluctant to remind him of the debacle at the Ministry the previous summer in order to make him see reason. That would be cruel.

She decided on a different tactic when Harry brought up Malfoy's supposed Dark Mark. "A Dark Mark we don't know exists," she reminded him. "Harry, before you get all excited, I still don't think you'll be able to get into the Room of Requirement without knowing what's there first. And" - she tilted her chin down to pin him with her eyes - "I don't think you should forget that what you're _supposed _to be concentrating on is getting that memory from Slughorn." Grabbing her (too heavy) bag, she heaved it onto her shoulder. "Good night." She headed up the stairs to the girl's dormitory. Yet whatever she'd told Harry, Hermione did believe Malfoy was up to no good - she just didn't want Harry distracting himself from the job Dumbledore had given him. Hermione was certain getting that memory was critical.

On Monday, she and Ron had Apparation practice in Hogsmeade during the afternoon. The day dawned beautiful and blue-skied, and morning classes passed quickly. Before leaving the Great Hall after lunch, Hermione pulled Harry aside. "Listen, I know what you plan to do today. You're going to lurk around the Room, hoping to catch Draco, aren't you?" Harry's expression was mulish but he didn't deny it. "You'd do better to go straight to Slughorn's office and try to get that memory from him."

"I've been trying!" Harry snarled back and stalked off. He didn't wish her luck with practice, which hurt.

Apparation was draining, but they'd be tested in a little over a month and she was nervous. Even if she were growing fairly consistent, she still sometimes failed entirely, or lost bits of hair, and once, half her foot. Fortunately, Instructor Twycross was at her side instantly and her toes were reattached before she even felt the pain. It was still enough to make her hyperventilate and have to sit out a while. When supper came around, they were all released either to return to the castle or - despite some concerns for student safety - to eat at the Three Broomsticks. A special treat after a day of hard work. Hermione had fully intended to return to the castle to see if Harry had had any luck with Slughorn, but Ron nudged her side and nodded towards a figure standing outside the door to the pub.

"Cedric!" Hermione practically shrieked and went flying, throwing herself on him like she had that rainy day the previous autumn which had ended badly for Katie Bell. Cedric grinned just as widely now as then. "Why aren't you at work?" Hermione demanded.

"I'm done for the day, Granger. It's after five. I Flooed here instead of home. You said in your last letter you'd be practicing all afternoon. I thought maybe we could have dinner together." He spotted the silver chain to the red crystal heart she wore all the time now and tugged it out from under her robe to run his thumb over it. "I'm glad you've got this on you."

"I never take it off," Hermione assured him, then awarded him a big kiss, which he returned with enthusiasm despite the public space. Then they went in for a lovely supper, Ron joining them at Cedric's suggestion so it wasn't as intimate as Hermione might have liked. But even sitting beside Cedric, able to touch him and hold his hand, meant a lot to her.

Cedric relayed what he'd learned from Scott and Peter about attacks on Muggles and Muggle-borns outside the castle, as well as what he'd been seeing around the Ministry. Ron shook his head and Hermione felt her stomach clench. "What will I do when I finish here?" she muttered. "If they're discriminating against Muggle-borns . . . "

Cedric laid his hand over hers. "Discrimination's still illegal, poppet. The employees who got the boot had all slipped up - well, all but one, and we only _think_ she was framed, we're not sure. It's notable mostly because getting sacked was rather severe as punishment - like they were looking for an excuse. And not all departments are firing Muggle-borns for minor infractions."

"Only a matter of time," Ron muttered over his soup.

"You're not helping, Ron," Cedric warned him.

Ron just shrugged. "It's got nothing to do with Hermione. She's brilliant. It's just - "

"I know," Hermione said, slumping in her seat. "How long is this going to go on?" Neither Cedric nor Ron replied; both just kept their eyes on their food. "It was years last time, wasn't it?"

Reluctantly, Cedric nodded.

"But how will people survive? They have to earn a living . . . "

"We're not at war yet, Hermione," Cedric said softly, and she didn't miss that he'd used her given name - always an indicator of seriousness on his part.

"Only a matter of time for that, too," Ron said, then abruptly let go of his spoon, which fell with a clunk against the side of his bowl as he straightened his back. "I wish we knew what Dumbledore was planning - if there even _is_ a plan!"

"I don't think he can plan anything until Voldemort makes a move," Cedric replied.

"That's not how you play chess!" Ron replied. "If you want to win, you can't just react to what the other player does. You have to walk them into doing what you want them to do. Dumbledore has to have a plan. I mean, he's Dumbledore!"

"Maybe he does," Cedric allowed. "But right now, I think his main plan is to let Harry finish his education."

"And find out whatever's in that memory of Professor Slughorn's," Hermione added. "I doubt he can plan too much without knowing what Slughorn is hiding."

"Maybe," Ron said, returning to his soup. Little kept him from food for long.

"What about your job?" Hermione asked Cedric. "Given what you're doing . . . "

"I'm safe for a while yet," he told her. "Major just - today - asked for and received the dissolution of his parliament, and the General Election is set for the first of May. So things are changing fast in the Muggle world and the Minister needs me to stay on top of it."

"Major's called for an election _already_?" Hermione asked, shocked. "That'll be a long campaign! Six weeks!"

"Is it?" Cedric asked. "I saw a couple of papers say so, but I wasn't sure."

"Oh, campaigns are usually much shorter. We're not like the crazy Americans who start months ahead."

"Months? Merlin! Where do they get the money?"

"You'd be surprised," Hermione told him, voice grim. "But anyway, I'll owl mum and dad and ask them to send me their old copies of _The Guardian_ so I can keep up with the news."

"I'd send you mine but they go directly to Scrimgeour's office. Anyway, the good side of all this is that I'm too important right now for him to let me go, whatever pressure he may be getting from other quarters."

"What's a General Election?" Ron asked, obviously bemused by their whole exchange.

Hermione and Cedric just stared at him. "Muggle General Elections, Ron," Hermione said. "For a new majority party and Prime Minister. They have them at least every five years, and this time, you can bet Major and his party will be leaving office."

"Oh. The Prime Minister is that Muggle bloke who runs their government?"

"Well, technically, that's the queen," Hermione corrected. "But yes, in point of fact, it's the Prime Minister. After elections, the leader of the winning party will have an audience with the queen, who gives permission for that party to form a government, and then the party leader becomes the new Prime Minister."

"Bloody confusing," Ron muttered, tearing apart a dinner roll.

"Labour will probably win," Cedric said. "Unless the Lib Dems form a coalition with the Conservatives. Scrimgeour is getting me into The Royal Festival Hall to be present. He wants me to survey Blair's inner circle - see if any of them act Imperiused. He doesn't think Voldemort would try cursing the PM, but cursing somebody around him is not only possible, but likely."

Hermione sat up in her seat, hands clasped in front of her. "You're going to the Labour election party?"

Cedric seemed to realize what she was thinking, because he grinned back. "I already asked Dumbledore if you could come as my date. He said he'd think about it - see how dangerous things looked at that point. But it would help to have somebody Muggle-born along; I've learned a lot but it's the simple stuff that's likely to trip me up. It's a Thursday night, so you'd have to skip Friday classes."

"Only Hermione would complain about that," Ron said, but his smile was teasing and friendly, not bitter or sarcastic.

"If I got to attend the _election party_, I wouldn't complain about missing classes!"

After dinner, she and Cedric didn't get much time to themselves - just a few minutes in a back corridor near the toilets to trade serious kisses - but even seeing him buoyed Hermione's spirits. "Only three more weeks," he whispered in her ear before letting her go, "then you're mine."

The Easter holidays. Hermione could hardly wait. Lately, she'd been feeling a need to see Cedric for more than a few hours at a time. "I really miss you," she told him as they made their way back out into the main dining room.

"Trust me, it's mutual," Cedric told her with low fervour and she wondered if he, too, was starting to feel some sort of uncertainty. "It's been harder than I expected, not having you around."

They'd reached the door and he hugged her again, holding her very tightly. "Please be careful, poppet. I worry, not being around to watch your back."

She pushed away from him a little to look up into his face. "Well, what about you? I'd say you're in as much danger as I am, Mr. Advisor to the Minister on Muggle Affairs."

"Yeah, well, I'm not hanging out with the Chosen One. I'd say he's _chosen_ to have a big target painted on his back."

Hermione knew Cedric was thinking about what had happened with Ron, and she gripped the crystal heart under her robes. "I wear this. And I'm careful. Do you have one?"

He reached into his pocket to pull out his watch, holding it up so she could see the little charm attached to it - just a simple jade dragon that looked much more masculine. "Fred and George gave me two-for-one. Really, I think they just wanted to know you'd be protected."

She pursed her lips and wrapped her arms back around his waist. "Honestly, Cedric, which did you buy first - mine or yours?"

"Yours of course."

Grinning, she tugged at his hips, pulling him closer to her so she could kiss the middle of his chest. "That's what I thought, and silly man, they gave you two-for-one because they were worried about _you_. I know the three of you don't always get along, but they don't want you to come to harm."

"Yeah, I reckon not."

They stood there for a few more minutes, reluctant to let each other go even though everybody who exited the Three Broomsticks shot them a glance, then looked away in embarrassment. Ron waited out in the road, back turned to give them privacy. "You should go," Cedric muttered.

"I know. Don't want to."

Smiling sadly, he gave her one last soft kiss and stepped away. He didn't say anything more, just looked at her for a minute, then turned and motioned the pub door open so he could return inside where he'd Floo home to London. Sighing, Hermione turned to trudge back up the road with Ron, headed for the castle gates.

* * *

><p>Only a few days before Hermione was to arrive for the Easter holidays, an unexpected guest turned up in Cedric, Bill and Fleur's kitchen on a Tuesday morning. Cedric was startled when he made his way out to start coffee, Esiban at his heels.<p>

"Charlie?" he said, blinking at the shorter but older man. Despite the fact it was still nippy in the mornings, Bill's brother wore nothing but a pair of Muggle sport-shorts. He was barefoot, his curly hair didn't look combed, and he obviously hadn't shaved in several days.

He looked up at Cedric. Unlike most of the Weasleys, his eyes were brown, and his hair more ginger than auburn. He had more freckles than Cedric remembered, too, and a lot of burn scars on his arms and torso. Dragons. There was an enormous colour tattoo of a Chinese Fireball on one shoulder blade. "Little Cedric Diggory?" he asked, clearly surprised. "Good God, you've grown!" Embarrassed, Cedric looked down. The last time he'd seen Charlie Weasley this close, he'd been a scrawny second year. "I guess I should've noticed at the First Task two years back," Charlie went on, "but compared to a Swedish Short-Snout, you were tiny." He chuckled, and Cedric laughed too, shifting uneasily on his crutches. Charlie hadn't stared at them at all. Most people stared, or tried not to, at least initially. Charlie had done neither.

Esiban picked that moment to sit up on his haunches and chitter. Charlie started, then his eyes got big and he squatted down. "A raccoon! Where in hell did you get a _raccoon_?"

"Canada," Cedric replied. "I raised him from a kit. He's eight now. His name's Esiban. It means 'raccoon' in Ojibway."

"Cute. But eight and not feral? That's unusual for a wild animal - usually they start to get unmanageable after five." Charlie gestured with his hand to pull a muffin he'd got out into his grip. Breaking off part, he offered it to Esiban, his hand lower than Esiban's head. Cedric was impressed that he didn't need to explain that to Charlie, but then like Hagrid, Charlie had a way with animals. Esiban hurried forward to take the muffin piece and Charlie grinned, letting him get familiar with his scent before attempting to scratch him. "How do you keep him from making a complete mess of the flat? Aren't raccoons supposed to be bad that way?"

"I guess, but he just never has - like he knows better. He will get into food - you'll notice all the cabinets are spelled closed, and he stays shut up with me at night - but otherwise, he's good."

Charlie studied Esiban a minute, then said, "I think he's half-magical, Cedric."

"Magic Seepage."

"Maybe. Or raccoons have a natural bent for it - some animals do. I'm not as familiar with North American species but it's often the cleverer sort, and raccoons are famously clever."

Cedric just laughed. "He is that for certain." Then he asked, "You came to visit Bill?" He didn't want to be nosey, but was wondering how long Charlie planned to stay. Things could get tight with five people in their little flat and Cedric wasn't inclined to send Hermione to her parents' the whole time. He needed her with him.

Charlie looked up. "Wedding planning, some of it. Mostly Order business though." He gave Esiban the rest of the muffin, then rose to pour himself a cup of the coffee he'd made. Noticing Cedric looking at the pot, he asked, "Want some?" He made it sound like a courtesy, not pity, so Cedric nodded.

"Thanks. Er, how long will you be here?"

Charlie's face turned amused as he fetched a second cup and poured, then offered it to Cedric, who'd leaned into the other counter so he could free a hand to take it. Esiban had already finished the muffin and was busy looking for any crumbs he'd dropped. "Bill warned me that your lady - Potter's friend - is coming to visit," Charlie said. "Don't worry. I won't be around much during the day, and I'm sleeping on the couch. I assume she'll be in your bed?" His brows went up as he blew on the hot liquid. Cedric blushed and stammered. "Oh, come on, Diggory. You're a big boy now. Surely you're trading more with your bird than chaste kisses."

"Well, yes, actually, she's staying in my room." He didn't point out that the living room was right beside it but Charlie seemed to get it.

"Use a Muffling Charm," Charlie warned, winking. "Wouldn't want you two not to have a little fun. Merlin knows, we can all use whatever fun we can find these days." He drained his coffee, then stepped past Cedric and headed down the hallway. "I've gotta shower and meet Remus down in Diagon Alley in half an hour. See you around, Diggory."

"Yeah, later," Cedric said, watching Charlie disappear into the bathroom that Cedric supposed they'd be sharing for a while. He knew he shouldn't resent Charlie's arrival; the Order could use all the help they could get. It was just that he wasn't used to living in such tight quarters. The Weasleys, however, were, and he doubted either Bill or Charlie had given a second thought to Charlie crashing on Bill's couch while he was in London. Yet if Cedric had got used to Bill and no longer found the older man intimidating, Charlie was another matter, even though he was the younger brother. Top Seeker, dragon-tamer, popular student, all-around athlete and known ladies man even back in his Hogwarts days, Charlie Weasley had awed Cedric all during his first and second years. And if Cedric realized that _he'd_ probably awed a few youngsters during his last year - like Rose Zeller - it was hard for him to erase that overwhelming sense of inferiority around Charlie and see him as just another bloke.

He heard Fleur pad into the kitchen and turned. "Charlie?" he asked.

"Ah, _oui_. He came last night. He and Bill do the planning for the wedding, and other things."

"He said he was meeting Remus later."

She just nodded. Her hair was a silver-fine mess around her face and her silk robe clung to her curves, but Cedric had grown used to her. She poured her own coffee, took a sip and made a face. "You English! Your coffee is like to water!"

But she didn't pour it down the drain like she might have once. They were all pinching knuts these days, unsure of what was coming. Despite what Cedric had told Hermione, or his friends, he'd already begun saving for the inevitable morning he arrived at work to find all his things in a box and a P45 waiting for him. He feared Scrimgeour could hold out against the inevitable for only so long.

Now, he said, "Don't blame me. Charlie made it. I know you like your meat mooing, your veggies lightly steamed, and your coffee thick enough to cut with a knife."

Laughing, she sashayed past him, headed back to her room. "Dinner is at seven-thirty sharp!" she called before closing the bedroom door. Despite her urbane veneer, Fleur was surprisingly domestic. At least once a week, usually on Tuesdays, she wanted the three of them to sit down together for "a real meal." Four of them now, Cedric supposed - and five when Hermione got there. Fleur would be delighted.

The next few days passed quickly. As Charlie had promised, Cedric saw little of him except in the mornings. He liked to sleep in, but stayed out late in pubs. "Chasing arse," Bill said, laughing. "Sometimes I think that boy will never settle down."

"You have not much room for talking - until me," Fleur scolded him with a grin, then turned to Cedric. "Hermione is arriving tomorrow, yes?"

"I was hoping tonight," Cedric said, "but I haven't had an owl with an exact time so it's looking like tomorrow."

"We will have a special dinner then!" Fleur said.

"Twice in one week?" Cedric asked.

"She has a new recipe book," Bill explained.

"Ah."

Indeed, Hermione didn't arrive until ten the next morning, by Floo. "McGonagall had to schedule appointments. I didn't get one last night," Hermione said against Cedric's neck where he was crushing her to him with all his strength.

"Fleur is out shopping with Mrs. Weasley, and Bill and Charlie are . . . somewhere. We've got the place to ourselves."

Bemused, she looked up at him. "_Charlie?_"

"He came for visit. Naturally he picked the same time you were coming." He rolled his eyes.

She snorted. "He's a Weasley. I'm sure it never occurred to him that there might not be much elbow room here."

Cedric laughed and stepped away, cocking his head towards his bedroom. "Let's not waste what time we've got before the masses descend. Fleur is planning to make a big dinner."

Nobody came home until late afternoon. By that point, the two of them were dressed and sitting at the kitchen table, sharing strong tea and the ginger thins that Hermione's mother had given him on Thursday when he'd paid his weekly dinner visit. Cedric felt like he should be in a "most British" ad for_ Witch Weekly_, but he was actually quite fond of Helen Granger's ginger thins and devoured most of them, which made Hermione laugh. She had Esiban on her lap, feeding him bites. "Between you and Charlie, I'm going to wind up with a fat raccoon," Cedric told her, but without much heat. Anybody Esiban accepted got a free pass in Cedric's book.

When Fleur entered, loaded down with Shrunk market bags, she commandeered their assistance in the kitchen. She was planning a full, multi-course meal, French style, which took the rest of the evening to make. They ate continentally late. When Bill came home, he cast an Enlarging Charm on the kitchen dining area, then on the table. Remus arrived shortly afterwards, accompanied by Moody and Tonks - but not Scott, who was apparently on an assignment.

Charlie didn't show up until Fleur had already served the salads. "You are late!" she scolded him.

"Sorry." But he didn't sound sorry, and he didn't look entirely sober, either, his cheeks flushed, although he was far from drunk. "Got stuck in the pub."

"Held hostage by a beer, I'm sure," Bill teased as Charlie took off his cloak and hat, hanging them on the coat rack near the back door, then accepted the chair at his brother's side, leaning across the table to shake hands.

"Remus, Alastor, Tonks . . . " He stopped cold and stared at Hermione. "Hermione?"

"Yes - hello, Charlie, it's been a while hasn't it?" She offered him her hand too, but instead of shaking it, he actually walked around the table to kiss the back of it.

Cedric felt a slow burn ignite deep in his chest. What the hell?

Charlie completely ignored him, his eyes on Hermione - mostly on her face but Cedric didn't miss the fact they dropped a time or two to inspect her cleavage. "I knew you were coming, and that you were with Diggory - but my God, woman. You've grown up! And grown up very well, I might add."

Taking back her hand, Hermione turned pink. "Sit down and quit flirting with Cedric's girl," Bill told his brother, but it was good-natured. He clearly didn't see much wrong with Charlie's behaviour, and Cedric felt stupid for his anger. Yet he still felt angry. He wouldn't have reacted to another man's girlfriend like that - or at least, not without paying the fellow a compliment too, and making it clear he realized the woman in question was taken. Charlie, however, hadn't said a word to Cedric upon arriving although they'd been perfectly friendly till now.

Charlie then proceeded to spend the whole meal fixated on Hermione. He was seated across from them, so he had a clear view of her the whole night and lost no chance to compliment her, ask her questions, even butter a dinner roll for her. Hermione seemed confused by the attention. Cedric knew she didn't handle flattery well, not believing herself attractive enough to merit it - a point he considered absurd but struggled to avoid embarrassing her over. Yet confused or not, it was also clear she liked the attention. She blushed and smiled and shot Charlie bemused but pleased glances - even though it was Cedric's thigh her hand rested on beneath the table with a lover's familiarity. He gripped it tightly, barely letting her have it back to eat.

He felt completely set off his mark and unsure what to do. He didn't want to act like a jealous prat, but he wasn't comfortable with the attention another man was paying her. And Charlie was _suave_, too. While Cedric had never lacked for attention from the ladies, he'd never really learned to flirt because he hadn't needed to. They'd flirted with him. With Hermione, things had just fallen into place like a set of nesting bowls as if she'd been made for him.

Charlie, however, knew how to flirt. Never over the top, completely sincere, and maddeningly witty. Yet nobody at the table seemed to find his behaviour peculiar except maybe Fleur, who appeared annoyed. Even Bill - after that first remark - said nothing, although Cedric had considered him a friend. Then again, Charlie was his brother.

Cedric couldn't wait for the meal to finish. Unfortunately, Fleur had pudding and coffee. Cedric scrambled for some excuse. "I'm sure Hermione is tired. It's been a busy day," he said while Tonks and Hermione helped Fleur clear the table. "I think we'll, ah, retire for the night."

Bill snorted at that. "I bet." But it wasn't said cruelly, and he winked at Cedric. Moody and Remus were grinning and Tonks barely avoided something that sounded suspiciously like a _titter_. Charlie stood, however, turning to where Hermione was coming back from the kitchen counter with the coffee carafe.

"Diggory here is threatening to take away your company," he told her. "Says you're tired. I don't suppose I could convince you to stay a bit longer? Your lovely face is much sweeter than any dessert."

Cedric ground his teeth at the challenge. All night, Charlie had flattered her, chatted her up and teased her, but had made no attempt to challenge Cedric directly. Now, he had, and Hermione appeared confused, reluctant to turn him down but not wanting to refute what Cedric had said. She glanced at Cedric, who spoke in a polite but cold voice, "I haven't seen my girlfriend in three weeks - and for a couple months before that." If he placed a slight emphasis on 'my girlfriend,' he thought he could be excused. "This is our first evening together."

"You had her all afternoon, didn't you?" Charlie asked, looking directly at him for the first time in an hour. "Surely you didn't waste it?"

Cedric felt his blood boil, but thankfully, Fleur came to his rescue. "We have monopolized them enough. Go you both - shoo! We will see you, ah, _sometime_ tomorrow. Not too early."

Grateful, Cedric rose from his chair with a little help from Remus, who was seated beside him. "Thank you, Fleur. I'm sure the pudding is divine."

"Go," she said again as Cedric followed Hermione out and down the long hall to his bedroom.

"Do you want to use the toilet first?" he asked her. "To brush your teeth?"

She was looking at him with a puzzled expression. "All right." She went into his room to fetch her bag while he sat down to wait. Esiban, who'd been banished during dinner, came over to curl up in his lap. He could hear the talk and laughter still in the kitchen, Charlie's voice rising clear above the others'. After a few minutes, Hermione was back and Cedric took his turn.

When he finished, he found her sitting out on the steps down to the street. She was dressed in loose Muggle track-clothes and had a glass of wine in hand, Esiban curled beside her. A second glass of wine waited one step below her. "Fleur brought it," she said, indicating their glasses. "She didn't want us to miss the wine since her mother sent it from France."

"That was nice of her," Cedric said, manoeuvring carefully to join her. It was a lovely night, cool without being cold, the stars and moon out. Lowering himself onto the top step, he laid aside his crutches and took her hand. She gave it easily.

"What was that in the kitchen, Cedric?" she asked him. "Fleur spent hours on dinner. We didn't have to leave that abruptly."

"He was . . . he was _all over you_, Hermione. Charlie. I got tired of it. You're _my_ girlfriend."

Turning her head, she frowned at him and actually took her hand out of his, but it was to pick up his glass of wine and hand it to him. "Drink some of this and settle down, Mr. Possessive."

He accepted the glass, but glared out at the street. "I'm not trying to be possessive, but you can't pretend you didn't see what he was doing."

"Cedric." He turned to look at her. She was smiling at him. "Charlie was just being nice. He's known me since I was little and I'm all but part of his family. He was asking me about school, Harry, and of course Ron - and Hagrid too. He's like the twins and Ginny in being an extrovert, not like Bill, or Percy. That wasn't flirting - or not serious flirting. Why would he? I'm just two years older than his baby sister!"

She couldn't seriously be that blind, could she? "He wasn't looking at you like you were his sister, trust me. Men don't check out their sister's tits - well, not unless they're abnormal."

She's turned bright red. "He wasn't - "

"Yes, he was. More than once. I caught him."

"Um, well." She tucked some of her hair behind an ear. "He's still a lot older than me. I'm sure he wasn't serious about it. He knows I'm with you anyway."

"Yeah?" Cedric took a sip of his wine. "Well, neither your age nor you being with me seemed to register as a hurdle for him."

"Stop it, Cedric." Her voice was quiet. "You know I love you."

"I know," he said with a sigh. "I'm sorry. I'm just . . . not used to that. I was taught it's impolite to make a move on somebody else's girl. Especially right in front of him!"

"You'd rather he did it behind your back?"

"_No. _ I'd rather he didn't do it at all."

She giggled and he looked over at her, frowning. "You're cute when you're jealous, Ced. But you don't have anything to worry about." Moving Esiban, she stood up and threw back the rest of her wine in one big gulp. It startled him. But then she held out her hand. "Come on, loverboy. It's you I came to see. And it's you I'm sharing a bed with."

He didn't need to be reminded twice and finished his own wine as quickly.

Despite a pleasant repeat that evening of their afternoon entertainment, Cedric didn't sleep well and woke early. Rising, he used the toilet, then went to the kitchen to hunt for something sweet for Sunday breakfast for himself and Hermione, who was still sleeping. Hearing footsteps, he looked up.

Charlie. Damn. He'd seen him snoring in the living room and had hoped he'd stay that way. Cedric hated confrontations but now rose to his full height, glad he was taller even on crutches. Charlie just looked at him. The older man's eyes were bloodshot. He must have had a lot of Fleur's wine. "I need some water," he said.

"Hangover?" Cedric asked, knowing he sounded a little too pleased by the thought.

"Maybe a bit." Charlie pushed past to get a glass and turn on the tap.

Cedric felt as if he should say something, but had no idea what to say. While he stood waffling, Charlie finished his water and turned the glass upside down in the drainer. He spoke without looking at Cedric. "Gonna tell me to stay away from your girl, Diggory?"

Cedric blinked. He hadn't expected Charlie to be that blunt, then remembered what Hermione had said the night before about him being closer to Ginny or the twins in temperament than Bill. Yet this morning, Cedric was feeling a bit _smug_. He and Hermione had needed that Muffling Charm last night - and he half-hoped Charlie had heard him make her scream anyway. "If I had to tell you that, she wouldn't be my girl."

Charlie actually chuckled and looked over at him. "Good comeback, kid." Cedric bristled at being called 'kid,' but Charlie had narrowed his eyes. "Look, I'm an honest bloke. I don't go behind backs. Hermione - she's turned into quite the beauty. With brains. And if my little brother didn't have the good sense to make a play for her when he could, I'm not that stupid. I'm being up-front about that. You keep her if you can, Diggory, but I'm going to see if I can steal her away." He gave Cedric a half-comical salute. "May the best man win, right?"

Turning then, he wandered back out, leaving Cedric to lean against the counter and curse.

* * *

><p>That first night at Cedric's, Hermione had thought him exaggerating about Charlie. A few days later, she was pretty sure he wasn't, but remained conflicted and baffled. She'd never had a man pursue her like Charlie was - not even Krum . . . and definitely not Cedric. Krum had been polite but circumspect, and at the time, Hermione had been aiming to make Ron jealous. As for Cedric, the two of them had been pulled together by sheer gravitational inevitability despite the fact he'd had a girlfriend at the time. Yet as a result, he'd never pursued her - rather the opposite, actually. He'd done his level best to stay away from her until he just couldn't any longer. And if that magnetism was a strange sort of flattery, it was different than having a man go <em>after<em> her as if she were something worth having, even worth wresting away from another man.

That was new to Hermione and she wasn't entirely sure how to respond. She supposed she could ask Fleur - who'd certainly turned down her share of men - but Fleur still intimidated Hermione. Not to mention Fleur was giving Hermione dirty looks on a regular basis. Hermione had already surmised that she was very fond of Cedric in an entirely platonic way, which was why Hermione wasn't nervous that her boyfriend shared an apartment with a part-Veela, whatever Umbridge had implied back at the Minister's New Year's Eve party. Fleur didn't want Cedric that way and - amazingly, pheromones or not - he seemed to have become inured to her. It was much like what Hermione felt for Harry.

The trouble was Hermione didn't know how to politely put off Charlie, and it didn't help that Cedric was spending more and more time sulking. His initial jealousy had mutated into a mulish hostility that left him snappish and unkind. He even stayed late at work on Wednesday evening after he thought she'd paid too much attention to Charlie at Fleur's weekly dinner the night before. Given how little time they had together, Hermione was furious with him for wasting it and packed up that same evening to go and visit her parents. "I need to see them for _some_ of my vacation," she told Cedric. "I'm obviously _distracting_ you from more important things."

He glared at her from where he sat on his bed, his expression a mixture of anger and distress and plain _pain_. "Fine. At least Charlie won't be there."

"Would you stop it with the Charlie-this, Charlie-that! Good God, Cedric!"

He turned his head away and didn't reply. She finished with her trunk then hauled it out, headed for the front door, but heard feet behind her - a steady tread, not Cedric's thump-drag. She didn't turn but a strong, freckled hand took the trunk handle out of her grip. "Haven't you heard of levitation charms, sweets?" He tapped the trunk, which immediately rose into the air and dogged her heel like a well-trained pup.

She didn't want Charlie's help either. "Thank you," she told him. "I can get it from here." And she walked out.

She spent the next few days at her parents', sulking as badly as Cedric. Once or twice, her mother or father tried to dredge out of her what was the matter, but she put them off, saying she didn't want to talk about it yet.

The more she mulled it over, the more furious at Cedric she became. Didn't he trust her? She was also angry at Charlie for flirting so shamelessly - but she had to admit, she was more than a little flattered too. He'd made no bones about his interest, nor was he trying to be sneaky, which made it harder to condemn. Unlike Cedric's distrust. _That_ burned. She'd never given Cedric any reason to doubt her and couldn't understand why he would. After all, _she_ wasn't the one who made the opposite sex at the ministry sigh when he passed. Cedric could have anybody. Hermione wasn't so lucky, and knew it.

To make it all the more confusing, she'd started to wonder if maybe, possibly, she'd be better off with Charlie? Over the past few months, her feelings for Cedric had been changing. She still loved him, and she worried about him often. Even the thought of him in danger filled her with terror. But she wasn't feeling that same sparkle, the mad, passionate pull that had driven them together despite everything the autumn before last.

She didn't feel that for Charlie either, but he did make her giggle like she'd had too much wine. And if he was older than her by several years, Hermione had always been mature for her age. She'd dated Krum, who was three years her senior, and now Cedric, who was two. Her mother told her she had an old soul, and if the age difference with Charlie was off-putting, Hermione knew its significance would lessen over time. Charlie was also a Weasley and Hermione had felt a part of that family for years. When she'd been a third year, she'd had a crush on Percy. In the fourth, that had shifted to Ron. Would it be so surprising if she wound up with a Weasley in the end, then?

Not to mention Charlie was much more in her league in the looks department. He didn't stop women in the street by the beauty of his features - although maybe by the beauty of his body. Hermione had been treated to the sight of a bare-chested Charlie on more than one morning. He liked showing off the massive dragon tattoo on his right shoulder blade - and his muscles into the bargain. Cedric had muscles too as a result of working out, but they were nothing beside Charlie, who was built broad and thick. Yet in the face, Charlie was more _personable_ than attractive, with a quick grin, lively eyes, and dimples. He had too many freckles to ever be called handsome, not to mention thin lips and a ruddy complexion. Beside Cedric's aristocratic beauty, he was rather plain.

Like Hermione. He was much closer to Hermione on the beauty scale than either of them was to Cedric. Bill was the beautiful Weasley - and Ginny. Even Ron was better looking than Charlie. And whatever Lucy Diggory had told Hermione about the way Cedric looked at her, Hermione still felt inadequate. It just wasn't smart, in the long run, to date out of her league. With Krum, she hadn't felt so because even if she was no flyer nor athlete, he hadn't pursued her for those things. He'd been attracted by her mind, and he was no great beauty either. Cedric, however, was as clever as she, and a lot more handsome. Charlie had passion, intelligence, wit . . . and a good face, not a striking face. Perhaps the better part of valour would be for her to break things off with Cedric before he broke them off with her.

Yet the way things were going, a formal break-up might not be needed. Cedric hadn't even owled her since she'd left his place, as if he'd forgotten all about her. She knew that was ridiculous - he was only angry - but her uncertainty had left her melancholic and inclined to hyperbole.

On Friday night, her father knocked on her door while she lay across her little childhood bed, a ratty bunny clutched to her chest for stuffed comfort. "Honey," he called, "May I come in?"

"Sure, why not?" Hermione called back and sat up. "It's not like I'll get any other company," she muttered.

Sitting down on the bed edge, he asked, "What are you doing at home on a Friday night with your boyfriend right across town and the two of you not even sending owls or talking on the phone? So talk to me then. What's come between you?"

Hermione didn't know where to begin even while part of her did want to talk to somebody, and she'd always been closer to her father than her mother. After a long struggle while her father just sat and waited, she finally blurted out, "Boys are stupid!"

His grin was faint. "Yes. Yes, sometimes we are. Care to explain?"

Sighing, she sat up - then suddenly was talking, the words pouring out of her about Charlie's advances, Cedric's jealousy, and even her own uncertainty regarding what she was feeling for Cedric these days. She raged and whined and even cried a little, and her dad listened through it all, holding one of her hands in his. When she ran out of steam and words, he sat for a minute, just looking at her, then stood and tugged on her hand. "Come here, sweetheart."

Uncertain, she let him pull her up, then he turned her to look in the mirror over her dresser, smoothing back her hair from her face. She could see the tear stains on her cheeks. Reaching around from behind her, he tilted her head up. "I know you're going to think this is just your old man's bias, but I want to show you something. I want you to see what every boy and man sees who passes you on the street. Look at those big dark eyes. And this hair - it's beautiful, all curly and full."

"Dad! It looks like a tent on my head!"

"No, it doesn't." He touched her cheeks, drawing a line along her cheekbones. "You have beautiful bone structure. Take it from a maxillofacial surgeon, love, there are women who'd kill to have your jawline and cheekbones. You have a good chin and a cute little nose."

"So I look . . . _cute_. Maybe. Like the girl next door."

"Don't knock it." He stepped around to face her. "You look a lot like your mum did at your age. I thought she was the prettiest thing I'd seen - but not too pretty. Let me tell you a secret about boys, Hermione. We're terribly insecure. You think Cedric is some Adonis, but I doubt he sees _himself_ that way. He's a modest, polite young man. To be fair, yes, I think he knows he's good looking and that women notice him, but I don't think he sees himself as all that special. I do know one thing, though - there are pictures of you all over his office, magical and Muggle both. I saw them when I dropped in to help him set up his computer. He's got one on his desk, one taped to his monitor - and one of you as a desktop background on his laptop, too. He's got three tacked to the padded wall of his cubicle. Basically, the boy can't look anywhere in his office without seeing your face - and he made sure of that. He's head over heels for you, and I'm betting he's feeling mighty upstaged by Charlie Weasley. After all, isn't that bloke a dragon tamer or something?"

Hermione felt her cheeks heat. Cedric had that many pictures of her? "Well, actually, Charlie just works with dragons on a reserve in Romania."

"Nonetheless, that's like some poor sod pushing papers back at the office trying to compete with a star football player. And Cedric - he's on crutches. He doesn't talk about it much, but I know it frustrates him. I see it sometimes even when he comes here to visit. He hates those things. They make him feel like less of a man."

"He's not!" Hermione protested automatically.

"Of course not, but it's what _he_ feels that matters. Just like it's what you feel about the way you look that matters, isn't it? I could talk till I'm blue in the face, but you'll still see what's in your head" - he tapped the side of her skull - "instead of what's in the mirror, won't you?"

Hermione was struck by the similarity of her dad's words to what Lucy Diggory had told her back in December. How many times would she have to hear it before she believed it? Tears pricked her eyes. "Doesn't it ever go away?" she asked him. "This feeling of not being good enough?"

Leaning in, he hugged her, swaying her back and forth a little in his arms. "I wish I could say it does, honey - but the truth is . . . not really. No matter how successful we become, I think most of us still feel a bit like a fraud. People are like that."

He pushed her back and she looked down between them. "Dad, how do you _know_ you're with the right person? You and mum, you've always been so good together, for twenty years. How did you know? I feel like . . . I feel like . . . well, that's just the problem." She looked up. "I'm not feeling the same things for Cedric that I did last year. But I still love him - or I think I do."

Her father shook his head. "Love isn't a feeling, Hermione. The feeling goes away eventually. We live in a society that's elevated romance to false godhead. It leads people to expect unreasonable things. They think it's all about bubbles in the tummy and fire in the loins, then when reality descends and the feelings alter - and they always do eventually - they think they must not have been in love after all. They flit off to the next crush - then the next, then the next. There's a reason the divorce rate is astronomical. People are stupid about love. They want that crush feeling forever. They don't know how to grow up and love like adults, not teenagers."

His grin turned wry and he pulled out the chair at her desk to sit down. "Of course, here I am, complaining to a teenager about teen crushes. Don't mind me."

A sick feeling in her stomach, she crossed to stand in front of him. "Is something wrong, dad?" He and her mother weren't having problems, were they?

He sighed. "Your Uncle Phil left your Aunt Brenda, sweetheart. He moved out."

"Oh, no!" Her hands went up to cover her mouth. "What happened?"

"He had an affair. Brenda caught him. He didn't tell me, either - but then, he knew what I'd say." His faced turned pained. "And here I thought I knew him."

Bending, Hermione hugged him and felt him hug her back. "Dad, I'm so sorry - for you, mum, Aunt Brenda." She pulled back. "Why? Do you know?"

"Classic mid-life crisis, near as I can tell. This other woman makes him feel important. Brenda's practice has been doing a little better than his lately and I think he's . . . not jealous exactly, but feeling upstaged. Men can get stupid like that."

Hermione was floored by the news. She'd always loved her Uncle Phil. He'd seemed a cheerful, easy-going person, he and Aunt Brenda a perfect match. "I'd never have expected _them_ to break up."

"We didn't either, your mum and me."

"Can't any man be trusted?" Hermione half-shouted, throwing up her hands, angry suddenly at the whole gender and forgetting to whom she was talking.

Her father's expression was sardonic. "A few of us can be. I'd rather gnaw off my own arm than cheat on your mum, Hermione. And I'm pretty sure she feels the same way. If nothing else, this whole fiasco has got us to talk to each other - reiterate a few things."

Hermione returned to sit on the edge of her bed. "Are they going to get a divorce?"

"I don't know," her dad said. "Brenda wants to go to marriage counseling, but Phil isn't sure. I hope he comes to his senses before he loses a good woman chasing after a feeling. It's funny, isn't it, that you women read the romance novels but it's often the men who fall prey to immature ideas about love? Anyway, I didn't come in here to talk about Phil and Brenda. It hurts to see you hurting, darling."

She dropped her chin. "I know. But thanks for telling me anyway." Oddly, knowing about Phil and Brenda had helped put some things into perspective.

"Go and talk to your boy, Hermione. If you're this miserable, I'm pretty sure he's feeling just as much like rubbish."

* * *

><p><strong>Notes:<strong> Did you catch my little nod to _X-Men: the Movie_? While yes, this chapter did end with them in limbo, the next chatper will resolve the Charlie plot-thread. Just as Rowling's book 6 had a 'romantic turmoil' plotline for Hermione, so does mine - albeit with Cedric instead of Ron. And contrary to what some might think after reading this, Charlie/Hermione is, actually, one of my favorite Hermione pairings. Yet he's a perfect foil to Cedric because he's a lot of things Cedric isn't and works as somebody Cedric might feel genuinely threatened by.


	14. Royal Festival Hall

Even Esiban had turned traitor. He liked Charlie and sometimes followed him around in the dark days after Hermione left. If he still slept with Cedric it was because Cedric didn't give him a choice; he couldn't be left to run wild in the flat at night. But during the day when Charlie was around (which was rarely), he could be found at Charlie's heels instead of Cedric's.

In Charlie's favour, he didn't flaunt this, although he could have. He could have preened at usurping Cedric's pet and driving away Cedric's girl, but mostly he appeared annoyed (at the latter if not the former). When he was there, he ignored or avoided Cedric, who was glad he didn't have to pretend to be polite to Charlie. Bill avoided them both, although Cedric knew he and Charlie often spent part of the day together. The few times Cedric did run into Bill, the eldest Weasley boy appeared apologetic, although he never actually said anything.

Fleur was the only one who hid neither her feelings nor her preferences.

"Why are you letting him win?" she scolded Cedric on Saturday afternoon when they were the only ones there, Bill and Charlie being out on the town again. Fleur didn't seem bothered by it since Bill saw his brother only rarely - or perhaps she'd wanted the chance to corner Cedric alone.

He was standing at the kitchen counter, making himself a sandwich with one hand, the other gripping his crutch. "I'm not letting him win."

Coming over, she pushed him aside and did it for him. "Go and sit down and I'll bring it to you."

He did as ordered and she placed the plate in front of him, along with a beer. "I think you need that." He didn't reply, just twisted off the cap and took a long pull, ignoring his food to peel the label. He'd had to force himself to eat lately. Fleur sat with hands folded on the table top, watching at him. He noticed that, as beautiful as she was, she had plain hands with short nails and prominent veins. Cedric had always found Hermione's hands lovely, even ink-stained.

"You do not understand women," Fleur said finally.

"It's not 'women' I need to understand. It's Hermione."

She waved a hand. "Of course, but Hermione is still a woman, and uniquenesses - is that a word? - uniqueness? . . . well, despite that, little girls still grow up with different - I don't know how to say, different 'script'? - than little boys, Cederic."

"Expectations, maybe?"

She nodded. "However we try hard not to be influenced by these expectations, we are. All my life, people stare at me. I never even thought of myself as not beautiful. But sometimes, I did not think of myself as worth more than this." She pointed to her face. "It is still . . . " - she placed a fist against her chest - "it is still a fear."

"You're worth a lot more than just your face, Fleur." Reaching out, he covered the hand left on the table.

"I know." Lowering the fist, she opened it to grip his hand between both of hers. "I_ know_ so. But I do not always _feel_ so. The heart thinks too. And even if it is true that you boys can become the pinups, it is not what you are most taught to aspire on. You find a good job, you make a good pay, you win respect in what you do. Or you show your courage, your strength - these are what matter. For girls, we are taught to be _pretty_. Some skill in the home is good, but pretty will do." The words were nearly spat. "The pretty girl will win the best husband. And even if we do not want to play by those rules, they are still all around us. How do we flee them? We tell ourselves, we tell ourselves, but the world is louder than the voices in our minds, yes?"

She tilted her head, then let go of his hand and pushed his plate closer to him. "Eat." Reluctantly, he picked up the sandwich. He did understand what Fleur was saying, and he could even figure out - sort of - where she might be going, but he wasn't sure what to do about it.

"I know that Hermione does not like me - "

"Fleur, she doesn't dislike you. And she's changed her attitude a lot since last summer. She knows we're just friends and you're not a threat."

"Maybe, but dislike is the usual reaction from the other girls. I am used to it. That, too, is what our world tells us. Women learn to see other women - prettier ones - as the challenge. And those of us who are the prettier, we learn to be proud of this, that we are 'better.'" She flicked her wrist. "Women are vicious to other women. It is stupid, but we all fall to this. I told you before, if you are different, and hated, then you learn to hate first. But I know this game - how it sours the mind, makes the reasonable ones to be unreasonable." Ducking her head, she looked right into his face. "Boys do it too, and I think that you have some of this to Charlie, no? I cannot understand otherwise how the handsome Triwizard Champion who convinced the Minister to make a new job _just for him _bows down to a hard-drinking, womanizing, dragon man who makes his home in a tent for half of the year."

Shrugging, Cedric picked at the lettuce sticking out of the edge of his sandwich. "He's a lot of things I'm not."

"And you are so many things _he_ is not!"

"Hermione seems to like the things he is better."

Fleur actually rolled her eyes. "Oh, please! What Hermione likes is that he _flatters _her! That is all! Think, Cederic! Here is where you must, indeed, know _Hermione_, not just the women. Do you think she would want a man who will never settle down? Who will be out more nights than he is home, to drink with his friends? Who can't seem to save a single knut once his bills are paid? Yes, he is great athlete. Yes, he is funny and easy to conversation. Yes, he is brave, and he has a good heart. But Cederic, so are you those same things. People like you as much, and _you_ are dependable. I promise you, Hermione cares more about what you bring. So why did she smile at Charlie? What do you think?"

Cedric can only shrug with one shoulder, although he knows exactly what she's going to tell him. He picks up the sandwich to take a bite finally.

"He flatters her, Cederic! He makes her feel she is the beauty!"

He all but threw down the sandwich. "I tell her she's pretty - I tell her that all the fucking time!"

Fleur sighed. "You adore her, you support her - you are her friend. The two of you are like two peas in a pod - you are_ comfortable_. Sometimes a woman does not want comfort! She wants to be - what is your word? - _flustered_ because a man is pursuing her. Right now, pursuing her is all Charlie has that you do not. He flusters her. He gives her the, ah, butterflies in the belly. But you? You could have her back like that." She snapped her fingers. "Only one thing is required." She pointed to the back door. "Go chase her. Make her feel that you _want _her."

He glared down at the sandwich, feeling angry. "Why should I have to prove that, Fleur? She knows it. I tell her. She knows how I feel, but she keeps doubting me. Why should she doubt me? I've never given her a reason!" His voice was rising. "I got myself _expelled_ last year for her! Maybe I should be the one doubting her!"

Fleur leaned over and rubbed her temples. "Stubborn fool. Yes, maybe she should have been more firm to Charlie, to put him off. But you - _you_ have been sulking like a little boy since supper last Saturday! From where I sit, I see error on both parts."

Rising, she folded her arms and glared down at him. "So if you do not want her, stay here. If your pride matters more, stay here. But if you love her - go and tell her so. It is okay, you know, to tell her you are angry - and why. To tell her you are hurt - and why. But if you do not tell her, then Charlie wins." She sniffed. "Even Bill doesn't want to see that."

Cedric studied her from under lowered brows. "Maybe he should tell Charlie."

She threw up her hands. "Oh, Cederic! He has! Bill hates this, to be in the middle between you! Charlie is his brother but you are his friend. Why must you be so passive! You float through your life, expecting the others to choose you, side with you! Fight back!" She actually kicked his chair in frustration.

"I put my name in that bloody cup!" he snarled.

"Oh? I remember that you were dragged in by your friends! And you were, in the contests, so _apologetic_. It embarrassed you, but you do not like to lose! I saw that too!"

"I don't want to look like an arrogant arse! I was taught it's polite to show a bit of humility!"

Bending at the waist, she put her mouth right beside his ear. "No, you have learned that people will forgive you anything. They will fight your battles if you ask them. I am telling you, I will not fight your battles." He jerked his head around to glare, but her smile was bitter and amused. "I could have gone to speak to Hermione, you know. Instead, I speak to you. If you want to keep Hermione, if you love Hermione, then you will go and tell her so. You will fight for her." She straightened up then and glared down at him, hands on hips. "That is all she needs, Cederic. Make her feel wanted. People make you feel wanted. Do you know how to make them feel so? It does not matter if you should need to - can you do it? Or is your pride too big? Be a man."

She left then, headed back up the hallway towards the larger part of the flat, leaving him to mull things over.

Fleur had a point in that he really wasn't any good at pursuing things, even while he could be fiercely competitive. He always felt badly for it, and had to be talked into competing at times. When he did compete, he struggled to be scrupulously fair - keep it about the competition, not personalities. But here, now, this wasn't a legitimate competition, not in the usual sense. Charlie had been up-front with him, but beyond that, this game had no rules and they were playing for keeps. All was, indeed, fair in love and war, and he was acting like some spoilt princeling who deserved to win just because he'd entered.

_He_ was best for Hermione, not Charlie - nor any other man either . . . ever. Maybe they were young, maybe they still had a lot to experience, maybe their world was on the verge of war, but what he felt for her was the one solid thing in his life. She centred him, she grounded him and she gave him a purpose. He wasn't fickle and never had been. He'd known from a young age what he wanted to do with his life; all he'd needed was the courage to pursue it. And he knew, now, with a soul-deep certainty, that Hermione Granger was his ideal match. Maybe he could meet another women he might love, but he wasn't terribly interested in looking for one when he already had what he wanted. He'd never been a "the grass is always greener . . . " sort.

Cedric liked certainty in his life, or what certainty he could get. Grand passions and extreme emotions might sound romantic, but right now he couldn't eat, couldn't sleep, couldn't even concentrate,_ and he didn't like it. _He preferred constancy; he wasn't made for these highs and lows. His heart hurt, and it was fear more than pride that held him back from going after Hermione. Down deep inside, he worried that she might have come to her senses and realised that a whole, fully mobile man was a better catch.

Cedric Diggory, Golden Boy of Hogwarts, feared rejection most of all. Sandwich plate pushed aside, beer forgotten, he bowed his head over the table until his forehead touched it; he sobbed once, hard. He needed to find some courage or he'd spend the rest of his life in regret.

Outside, he heard sudden voices approaching the back door. Bill and Charlie. They sounded cheerful and pissed, and the last thing he wanted was for them to find him bent over the kitchen table like a broken creature. In an instant, he'd Apparated from the kitchen back to his bedroom, leaving his sandwich, his beer bottle and even his crutches on the floor beside his chair.

"Coward," he muttered to himself as he flopped back on his bed. Not only had he not gone after Hermione, he'd trapped himself in his own bedroom in his own flat.

* * *

><p>It took all Friday night and much of Saturday morning for Hermione to screw up her courage, re-pack her trunk, and ask her dad to drive her back to the flat. "Do you want me to wait?" he asked when he pulled up to the kerb.<p>

"No," she said, getting out and going around to fetch her trunk from the boot. The Muggles weren't watching, so she used a little Levitation charm to get it out. Then she went around to give her dad a kiss through the driver's side window. "Thanks."

"You'll call?"

"Yes," she promised, glad that Cedric had a Muggle land line. She kissed him again, turned and took a deep breath, then headed up the pavement through building's entry to the flat's front door.

Charlie answered her knock, which she found a bit cheeky as it wasn't his home. Seeing her, he grinned and leaned into the door jamb. "Miss me, sweets?"

She sighed. "You'd like that, wouldn't you?" And she pushed past him.

"Actually, I would," he told her, following her in and closing the door. "But then, I wouldn't have let you walk out of here in the first place, if you were my girl."

Spinning, she glared up at him. "What? You'd have held me hostage?"

"Of course not. I just mean I'd have followed and begged you to come back."

That was the heart of the problem, wasn't it? Cedric hadn't followed her, hadn't attempted to contact her at all. She'd had to return to confront him. Charlie would have followed. But did she really want that? A part of her did, but another part liked that Cedric respected her enough not to chase her around; he gave her some space when she was angry.

_What _do_ you want?_, she asked herself. Trouble was, she wanted conflicting things. She liked Charlie's vigorous attention, but she also found it a bit tiring - and didn't trust it. Right now, she was his ambition, but she'd heard Fleur and Bill joke about Charlie's conquests. Charlie loved women; he didn't necessarily love her in particular. And she certainly didn't love him, just how he made her feel. Her father had reminded her that love wasn't about feelings.

Smile wry, she sighed yet again and turned to face Charlie in the foyer near Cedric's bath. The long hall to the kitchen and Bill and Fleur's room were behind her, the entrance to the living room to her right and Cedric's bedroom right in front of her. She willed the door to open but it stayed closed. She wondered if he was even in the flat.

"You just want a notch on your bedpost," she told Charlie.

He slapped a hand over his heart as if struck - but grinned. "I'd treat you right, Hermione. I know how to please a woman."

That made her laugh. "I'm quite certain you do! But that's part of the problem, isn't it? You're quite the expert on women."

"What's wrong with that? Do you really want some bumbling git?" He stepped closer to her. At least today, he was wearing a shirt. "Look, if you want Diggory, then say so. I don't go after another man's woman - not one who _wants_ to be his woman. You haven't seen me make a move on Fleur, have you?"

"She's your brother's fiancée! Bill would hex your bollocks!"

Charlie laughed. "He probably would - but that's not why. I don't chase Fleur because she doesn't want to be chased. But I see how you react to me. Right now, you're leaning towards me, aren't you?" And blast him, he was right - she was. It was a purely unconscious reaction. "I think it's me you want." He'd leaned in, too, so that his mouth was only inches from hers. "I'm the one who makes your blood race - not Diggory," he whispered.

Her blood was racing, but not quite in the way he meant. All of a sudden, she felt distinctly uncomfortable. This had stopped being a little game of flatteries and compliments and turned into something else. He smelled of man and a little of beer, and he was looking right down her shirt - without apologizing. It was, yes, a bit exciting, but when Cedric did it, he was playful about it and she felt prized. Charlie made her feel like _a_ prize. Attractive, yes - but she wasn't the sort of girl who was used to being admired so openly. She didn't like it. She'd thought she would, that it was what she wanted. But it wasn't, and she found herself leaning _away_.

Fortunately, the door to Cedric's door _finally _opened and there he sat in his chair. Rage was written all over his face and she feared it was aimed at her, but he wasn't looking at her - he was looking at Charlie. "Your girl isn't telling me to stay away, Diggory," Charlie said.

"She looks to me like she's trying to _get_ away from you," Cedric retorted.

Abruptly, Charlie stood up straight and took a step back. "I don't push myself on a woman," he said. "That's not how I operate." His eyes met Hermione's. They were warm and brown. "It's Hermione's choice." He cocked his head and spoke to her. "I'll make you happy, sweets."

"For how long?" she asked him, but it wasn't sarcastic and she shook her head before he could answer, stepping back - and closer to Cedric.

This wasn't what she wanted - two men fighting over her. This wasn't who she was, and the little thrill wasn't worth the pain and hurt she saw on Cedric's face. It struck her again what Charlie had said about Fleur: he hadn't pursued her because she hadn't wanted him to. Fleur might be used to men fighting over her, but she'd made her choice, and it was Bill. Just like Hermione's Uncle Phil had made _his_ choice, and it was to pursue a new and uncertain fling instead of twenty-plus years of marriage. Fleur had chosen certainty, Uncle Phil possibility. Of course possibility sounded tempting - like open doors and the smell of far-away places wafting through a bedroom window. Certainty was so deadly dull - predictable. Boring. Neat lawns and perfect hedges, a dead-end job and tea precisely at 5:30 while inside, the soul screamed for more.

But was that certainty? Or was that just the myth her father had alluded to? She'd never thought she could be the sort to fall into a trap of illusions, but here she stood on the ledge looking down into the pit. And she felt _ashamed_.

She took another step back towards Cedric - away from the ledge. He didn't imprison her soul, he held it softly. He wasn't predictable, he was dependable. He didn't trammel her, he was the foundation from which she could launch herself into flight. "There's not really any choice to make," she heard herself say. "I'm flattered that you're interested, Charlie, but I love Cedric." She glanced back at him over her shoulder and the expression on his face drove a spear right through her heart - such complete gratitude. His eyes were wet and his throat worked, as if swallowing back a sob.

She did the only thing she could do, she smiled at him and held out her hand. He gripped it. Hard. They both looked back then at Charlie.

He didn't appear shattered by her choice - or even much fussed, really. His grin was a little sardonic, but he offered Cedric a small bow. "The best man . . . " he said, trailing off before heading down the hall towards the kitchen and the back door. Hermione could see him taking down his cloak and slinging it around him. "Tell Bill and Fleur I'll be back late, kids."

When the door had closed behind him, Hermione sank down into Cedric's lap. He held her tightly, his face buried in her breasts, but not the way Charlie had been eying them. She ran her hands through his messy hair. "I'm sorry - " she started, but he raised a hand and felt around until he found her mouth, covering it. She fell silent.

After a minute, he raised his head. His grey eyes were still red. "I should have gone after you. He was right about that. He would have. I was an idiot."

"You heard that?"

"Doors and walls aren't that thick, poppet. Like I said, I was an idiot. I just . . . never mind." He pulled her head down to kiss her hard. He tasted of salt and mustard and beer, and his lips and tongue were insistent. "It wasn't that I didn't want you," he muttered. "I want you too much."

She felt like he was stealing her breath, and she pulled away just a little. His head followed, still trying to kiss her and she actually had to push his forehead back, gently. "I should have put him off from the outset. I'm just . . . not used to being flirted with. I didn't really take it seriously. By the time I did, you were, well - "

"Acting like a prat?"

She laughed a little. "Yeah, you were. I felt like you didn't trust me."

"I was afraid you were having second thoughts."

She buried her face against his neck so she didn't have to look at him because truth was, she had been, a little, in the last months. "I've just never been with anybody this long before," she told him quietly. "We're . . . young. Sometimes I worry we're getting in too deep, too fast." She pulled away then to see the side of his face. "Do you?"

"Sometimes," he admitted, eyes sliding sideways to watch her. "But I reckon when you find the right person, you find the right person."

"I'm the right person?"

He turned his head to eye her. "What do you think I've been telling you for the past . . . year and a half? Well, for a year at least. I wasn't sure immediately."

Head lolling on his shoulder, she smiled up at him. "How are you sure now?"

"You make me more myself," he replied without hesitation. "I don't have to _be_ anything for you except myself."

It was the last puzzle piece she'd needed and her heart twisted. She buried her face in his neck again. "You make me more myself, too," she whispered. "From the first time we talked, I felt like you saw _me_. I wasn't thinking about my frizzy hair, or that I wasn't born in your world, or that you might resent me for knowing things. Talking to you was fun. It was like . . . like brewing a potion you've done a hundred times before. No effort."

He laughed. "Or like flying, for me. Being with you is like flying." He ran his hand down her hair. "And I love your frizzy hair. It feels wonderful."

She burst into relieved giggles. It was still there - the way he made her feel. It might not be as spontaneous, and it no longer came with all the excited scramble of boiling infatuation, but it felt more solid, more certain, more _real_. This was home for her, to be in his arms. "Let's go to your room. I've only got one week left and we wasted most of the last one being stupid."

Make-up sex, Hermione mused to herself later, might be as spectacular as people claimed, but it wasn't something she planned to engage in often. The misery of quarrelling wasn't worth it, and the past few days had taught her that she really did prefer a bird in the hand to any number of them in the bush. Nor was it a handsome face that led a man (or woman) to cheat. It was a person's own choices, and insecurity.

Turning on her side, she hooked one ankle over the back of Cedric's leg and buried her nose against the bare skin of his arm where it pillowed his head as he lay on his belly. His breathing was heavy if not quite a snore. Asleep. Peaceful at last. So was she.

* * *

><p>"Fifteen minutes!" Hermione's dad called up the stairs.<p>

"Dammit, dammit!" Hermione muttered as she tried to get her hair to behave. She'd left the bulk of it down, but stray strands had been pinned into submission with pearl grips. Her mother hurried in with a multi-strand necklace of freshwater pearls and hung it around her neck, then she added Cedric's rose pearls atop. They matched the rose-beaded dress Hermione was wearing. "You're beautiful," her mother declared. "Cedric will be very proud to have you on his arm tonight - well, with him anyway. You know what I mean."

"But do I look old enough to be there?"

"Yes," her mother said without hesitation. "If I didn't know better, I'd think you in your early twenties. It's as much a person's carriage that tells age as looks."

"Cedric's here!" her dad called from below.

Hermione took a deep breath and grinned. _She was going to the Royal Festival Hall for a campaign party_. In fact, Dumbledore had permitted her to skip school tomorrow in order to come home tonight on election day, just so she could accompany Cedric and be present when the next Prime Minister gave his acceptance speech - well, probably the next Prime Minister. Her parents had been listening to the news all afternoon in their surgery and when Hermione had arrived by Floo after supper, they were both glued to the TV in their living room. "Exit polls are looking very good for Labour," her father told her as she stepped out of the fireplace. "I think you kids will be in the right place tonight."

Then her mother had whisked her upstairs to get ready. Whatever else was going on in the Wizarding world right now, _she was going to the Royal Festival Hall to see Tony Blair in person_. Even the idea of it made her giddy and she swept out of the upstairs bathroom, making her way down to where her father was chatting with Cedric in the living room, showing him - yet again - how to use the recording equipment. He had to look like a real reporter tonight.

He glanced up when he heard her, and his jaw dropped. It made her smile. He certainly looked none too shabby himself in a dark charcoal Muggle suit and tie. Distinguished. Even with the crutches. She thought he could easily pass for 25 instead of 19.

Her father handed over his camera equipment to her in its shoulder bag. She was to be the photographer tonight - in large part because she had two free hands, but also because the camera was more complicated to work than a mike and recorder. It was a good thing her father fancied himself enough of an amateur photographer to have a decent camera; it made their cover more believable.

When she joined Cedric, he bent to give her a kiss on the cheek so he wouldn't smudge her lipstick. "Hullo, pretty woman."

"Hullo, handsome man."

"Ready to go?" her father asked. They nodded and followed him out to his car. He was acting as chauffeur. Hermione accepted her mother's mobile phone as she told them goodbye at the door.

"Ring us when you're ready to leave. We'll be watching on the telly, but we won't know exactly."

"We'll ring." She joined the men in the car. Cedric was in the back because it was easier for him. Far from the first time he'd ridden in a Muggle vehicle, he was familiar enough now to close a door and secure his seatbelt himself. "You're looking like a regular Muggle these days," she told him, grinning as she watched him over the seat back.

He grinned back. "Tonight's going to be fun, poppet."

"No matter what?" What she didn't say - because her dad was right there - was, 'Even if there are Death Eaters?'

The smile dropped off his face, and he just nodded. "No matter what. They wouldn't know us anyway. Our goal's to blend in. You can bet they won't want to."

Hermione shot a nervous look at her father, but he didn't say anything, just kept his eyes on the road as he pulled out of their neighbourhood and onto one of the main roads, headed for the South Bank of the Thames. She was still a bit surprised how quickly her parents had signed on to help with this, but she thought they were excited not only at the prospect of their little girl being at a campaign party, they wanted to do something to help in this fight against Voldemort even if they had no magic to offer. This was something they could do and it made her heart proud. Being able to talk to them about the war, she felt less of a magical orphan these days, and was glad Cedric had convinced her to tell them finally. She still didn't want to alarm them unduly, but they'd proven surprisingly tough and supportive. Maybe that was the result of her mother's friendship with Lucy Diggory, but she thought it might just be her parents' basic natures. They'd been activists once. "It'll be like the good old days," her father had said when she and Cedric had first explained to them Cedric's assignment from the Minister. "A little spying and subterfuge!"

Her mother had whacked him playfully in the chest. "Relax, James Bond," she'd said. Then they'd got down to business, planning what Cedric and Hermione would need to pass as a minor press team covering the election.

Now it was time to put that into action. Traffic outside the South Bank Centre was horrendous - predictably. Hermione's father had put up the Blue Badge sticker he'd managed to secure and was waved in much closer than most transport would be permitted so that Cedric could exit without as far to go to the doors. He and Hermione had their fake press badges on lanyards around their necks and their invitations in hand, equipment prepared for the inevitable security searches. Security would find nothing out of the ordinary. Their wands were secreted in Hermione's camera baggage Transfigured into a tripod, but what Muggle would think to question a pair of sticks in any case?

"Are you excited?" Cedric asked as they made their way slowly forward past an embankment with fountains towards the front entry.

She nodded, feeling hot with nerves, and wiped hair off her cheek. His own cheeks had a handsome flush from the cool night air and the thrill of the evening. "Do you think we'll actually spot anybody?" she asked him softly.

"I don't know, Granger. That's why we're here. You know what to look for?"

"Yes. Dumbledore briefed me before I left. Somebody Imperiused may appear distracted, anxious, irritable, or even drunk. Although to be honest, I suspect a lot of people in there will look like all or some of those things without the help of curses."

He chuckled.

Inside the hall's foyer at last, the two of them were completely ignored. They didn't know anybody, and in the Muggle world weren't celebrities of any stripe. Despite their media equipment, their youth marked them as almost certainly low on the totem pole. A few men looked twice at Hermione in her pretty dress, and people of both sexes glanced at Cedric's crutches but had better manners than to stare. The two of them were somewhat overdressed - or at least Hermione was - but she didn't mind, and thought it better that nobody was paying them too much attention.

Music from a band in the auditorium could be heard even in the foyer. "Should we at least pretend to interview people?" she asked Cedric over the noise as she got out her camera and fitted a lens onto it. Here on assignment for the Minister or not, Hermione would be taking pictures for her father. She even had his best telephoto lens so she could get close shots of Blair himself when he arrived.

"I don't know," Cedric said, head craning so he could get a good look around - one of the advantages of his height. On one side, the multistory picture windows overlooked the embankment and river beyond. Shops and restaurants on all three stories were connected by stairwells, and couches invited guests just to sit and relax. "Maybe we should observe first. I don't know how easy it'll be to spot anything suspicious, but we can try. Get out that charm from the twins. It might pick up signs too." He had his pocket watch in his left vest pocket, the little fob with the jade dragon dangling out of sight under his coat.

Hermione blushed. "I, ah, took mine off for the night," she admitted. "It didn't really match the dress, and there wasn't much of a place to hide it. But I have it in my camera bag." She pulled it out to show him.

He stared at her. "Granger, I don't care if it's fashionable, or if this hall is full of Muggles. Please put it on. It'll make me feel better."

"Okay," she said, a bit meek. She clipped it behind her neck and shoved the crystal heart between her breasts. His eyes followed as it disappeared behind fabric and she couldn't help but blush a little. "So," she said. "You want to take the foyer and I'll take the concert hall? Meet back here in a hour?" 'Here' being one of the artful central stairwells. She checked her wrist watch as he checked his pocket watch.

"Sounds good," he said, bending to give her a peck on the cheek. "See you in an hour."

The auditorium itself was large and raked, which was why Hermione had volunteered for this area. It was easier for her to get around than him, especially with all the people. Methodically, she made her way along the aisles, studying the crowd while pretending to look for photo opportunities. She had her camera out. Some photos were real, such as the stage area beneath the orchestral canopy, a shot of the enormous hall pipe organ, and the side balconies beneath their iconic boxes. Onstage, a Britpop band she didn't know was playing, "Things Can Only Get Better" to raucous shouts and applause from the surging mostly-youthful crowd in the seats. The older crowd occupied the foyer, enjoying food and chatting, or watching the large, strategically placed television screens. Labour signs and slogans and hats, badges and rosettes, streamers and balloons completed the atmosphere. Hermione had already picked up a few as souvenirs for her parents from foyer tables. Change was in the air throughout Muggle Britain, albeit tempered by the anxiety generated by Voldemort even if the Muggles didn't understand the cause. Freakish weather, rising crime, and questions about the European Union - and John Major - were blamed. (Major and the Tories being blamed more in this crowd. Hermione was amused at how easy politics made it to point fingers at whomever was in office.) But tonight was for celebration and the people here felt confident Blair would win. A sense of impending victory hung in the air.

Hermione not only didn't see anything suspicious, she couldn't see much at all given the size of the crowd, and feared this would be a pointless endeavour. If she were one of Voldemort's agents, she'd have a spot in the balcony, or better yet, one of the side boxes. Determined, she made her way up the stairs toward the balcony region, one hand holding the camera, and the other gripping the crystal heart. With all this noise, she'd never hear it sing a warning.

Nothing. Absolutely nothing. She walked the halls behind the boxes. Still nothing. "Argh!" she hissed to herself. Although she wasn't sure why she'd expected this search to be easy. They weren't even certain anybody would _be _here. Glancing at her watch, she noted that she still had between ten and fifteen minutes, but decided to go back out to the foyer anyway. She'd had rather less area to search than Cedric. 

* * *

>Despite the excitement of the election crowd, Cedric found his particular assignment tedious. He couldn't just enjoy things for searching, but it was like much else that he did - sift the normal for any hint of the abnormal. He was getting good at it.<p>Yet in the end, he didn't need his carefully cultivated sixth sense at all. The face he spotted at a table in the fancy Skylon Bar and Grill was one he'd never in a million years forget. Rage raced through his veins and he felt hot all over. Certainly, he was trembling, half from anger, half from fear.<p>

Antonin Dolohov. The man who'd nearly killed Hermione the previous year in the Department of Mysteries. Wasn't he supposed to be in _Azkaban_? Obviously, he'd got out somehow, which Cedric feared spoke to just how far Voldemort had already infiltrated the Ministry. Either that, or there'd been another break-out that the Minister was keeping hush-hush. Cedric had no idea if Dolohov would recognize him, but even if he'd seen Cedric that night only as a large eagle, Cedric's picture had been in the papers more than once and who knew what Dolohov had had access to in Azkaban, or since. Deciding not to take any chances, Cedric backed up until he was strategically hidden behind a white column, but able to watch what the older man was up to.

Of Voldemort's inner circle, Dolohov was among the few who looked almost normal. He had a long, lined face, slightly curly hair, and a trimmed beard with just the right amount of grey to appear distinguished. Only his eyes gave away the depth of his withered soul. They were flat and cruel. Tonight, he wore a dark suit and long grey cape, which he somehow managed to pull off even among Muggles without looking idiotic. There was a large amber ring on his thumb, like a seal. Cedric's little jade dragon was hissing softly inside his jacket. "Merlin," Cedric muttered to himself. If the Minister had expected there might be somebody Imperiused in Blair's personal circle, Cedric didn't think any of them had expected such a high-placed Death Eater to show up here tonight.

What did Dolohov have planned? Surely Voldemort wouldn't try to have Blair assassinated. Or would he? That'd be one certain way of causing complete uproar - kill the new Prime Minister on the very night he was elected.

Peering out from behind the column again, Cedric watched Dolohov, who was watching the crowd, but with disinterest. He seemed to be waiting for something rather than trying to spy, sipping at a drink to pass the time. When he was certain Dolohov's attention was elsewhere, Cedric slipped away (as much as a disabled man could slip anywhere), back out to the stairwell, hoping Hermione might be early.

She was. And she must have seen something in his expression because she hurried up to him, gripping his sleeve. "What?"

He cast a Muffling Charm, then said, "Dolohov is here."

"No! He's in - "

"Apparently not anymore." Cedric shot a look back over his shoulder, just to be certain he hadn't been spotted and followed, but there didn't appear to be anyone. "He's in the Skylon, having a drink."

"Alone?"

"It looked that way, although for all I know, there might be somebody else here with him. Death Eaters rarely travel alone because Voldemort doesn't really trust anybody, although Dolohov is high enough in the ranks he might have been sent by himself tonight, especially if Voldemort is low on people. Then again, if he's got Dolohov back, you have to wonder who else he's got out of prison."

"Oh, no," Hermione whispered and abruptly pulled Cedric behind the stairs. "I know who else he's got. Lucius Malfoy! He's walking down the middle of the foyer!"

"Shit," Cedric hissed. "There's no way he wouldn't recognize us if he spots us." He peered out to see what Hermione had seen. Sure enough, there was Malfoy, his pale hair tied back, wearing a Muggle suit. He didn't look the least happy to be among Muggles in Muggle clothing. He was headed for the Skylon restaurant.

"We've got to get out of here!" Hermione said.

"No." He gripped her arm, perhaps a bit roughly by accident because he had to shift his weight. She squeaked. "We don't dare leave. We don't know what they're up to, but I wouldn't be surprised if they're going to try and kill Blair."

"All the more reason to go and get somebody better at this than we are!"

"No, poppet, we're going to keep an eye on them and call _in_ help."

"If we send a Patronus, one of them will see it. So might the Muggles."

"I'm not going to send a Patronus. Give me your mum's phone."

A minute later, Hermione had it out of her handbag, and Cedric was trying to remember how to work it. It only took a couple of wrongly punched buttons before he managed to ring up Mrs. Granger. "Hullo, Helen? It's Cedric. We have a _situation_. Please ring up Bill and have him come to the Royal Festival Hall with others from the Order. We've spotted trouble. Ring me back when you know they're on the way."

"Are you two all right?" Helen asked, a bit frantically.

"We're fine. We're staying out of sight. We'll meet the others when they arrive."

He ended the call and handed the phone back to Hermione. "The Death Eaters are so arrogant, they don't expect us to use Muggle technology to get around them," Cedric muttered. "Poppet, get your camera and take some pictures, if you can." Malfoy had stopped to lean casually against a column, surveying the crowd - but fortunately not looking in their direction. If he moved much, however, Cedric wasn't sure they'd be able to stay hidden from his view.

Hermione did as he suggested, clicking away. "Do you really think they'd try to kill Blair?"

"I'm not sure. But they're clearly here waiting for something. We were looking for Imperiused Muggles, but I think they're up to more. Imagine the trouble if the new Prime Minister were murdered on election night?"

"But who would they blame it on? Surely not the Tories!"

"No, not the Tories!" He almost laughed at the very idea. "They'd make it look like some small radical group, maybe some splinter group of the IRA. Any would do; I doubt Voldemort's fussy."

"If we stop them tonight, they might just try again tomorrow at Downing Street."

"They might. But does Voldemort have enough top-level Death Eaters he'd trust with this job? And if we can arrest Dolohov and Malfoy again, he may not _have_ anybody to send tomorrow, or the day after. He's also probably betting on surprise. He's not expecting anybody to be here to spot them. If they fail, he'd be certain there'll be Aurors around Blair tomorrow. I don't think he'll try again. Too much effort for not enough gain."

They watched Malfoy watch the crowd. Shortly, Dolohov joined him. "Camera!" Cedric told Hermione. But she already had it out and was snapping away. At almost the same time, their mobile phone rang again and he answered.

"Cedric?" It was his mother's voice, almost shouting.

"You don't have to talk so loud, mum." He smiled faintly.

"Don't you dare try anything! You and Hermione stay out of the way and out of sight. Just tell us where they are."

"In the foyer, main level, about midway down. Right now, they're just watching. They're dressed mostly like Muggles with Malfoy in a brown suit, but Dolohov is wearing a grey cape. I think Dolohov has some sort of enchanted ring on. Whatever he's got, it was making my charm hiss. He keeps his hand out, too, arms crossed."

"It's probably a scrying glass so the Dark Lord can see everything going on there. We'll have to be careful as we approach them. Is there any open space behind them?"

"No. They're backed up against the big windows."

"Damn. Where are you and Hermione?"

"The central stairwell sort of across from them on the main foyer level. We can see them, but they're not really looking in our direction and we're half-hidden by the stairs."

"Good. Stay put and do not - absolutely do not - perform any spells." Cedric hoped the Muffling Spell he'd cast earlier wouldn't count. "Helen and Charles are driving us to the hall so we don't need to Apparate anywhere in the vicinity. They'll be expecting that, but not for us to come in normally. If they move, contact us again. We'll have this phone."

"Who's coming?"

"Me, Kingsley, Bill, Tonks and Arthur - and that trainee friend of Tonks', your old roommate, Scott. Oh, and Helen. She's insisting."

"Hermione's mum?" Hermione's head twisted immediately, her mouth open, and she started shaking it vigorously. "Hermione's saying, 'No.'"

"She can tell that to Helen when she gets there. Her daughter is in danger, Cedric. Just like my son is. We're coming. See you shortly. We're already in the car on the way."

Cedric hung up and handed the phone to Hermione.

"There will be six of them, plus your mum. And I assume your dad is driving."

"How are they getting seven people in dad's car?" Hermione asked, astonished.

"Enlarging charm, poppet."

"This is crazy! Why is my _mother_ coming? It's dangerous!"

"Because you're here."

Hermione actually humphed in frustration, which made him smile and run the end of his finger along her cheek. "It'll be okay. She's not going to be fighting. In fact, if we're lucky, there'll be no fighting at all. There are Muggles all around."

"Which is precisely why you're going to come quietly and not make a scene, isn't it, Mr. Diggory? You actually care what the Muggles think."

Cedric spun about so fast he almost fell and only Hermione kept him on his feet. They were facing not Dolohov or Malfoy, but a pair of squat wizards, male and female, with the sort of grey dough faces that didn't merit a second look. Cedric didn't recognize them and didn't think Hermione did, either. He felt a flash of fear scorch his nerves. The woman, at least, had a wand in hand in the form of an antique cigarette holder and he was sure the man had one at the ready too, perhaps up his sleeve. "Who are you?" he demanded, trying to sound brave - and shifting to stand in front of Hermione. They'd have to go through him to get to her.

"Doesn't matter, Muggle-lover," the woman said. "Now come along, out of this crowded area."

Cedric did nothing. How close were his mother and the rest of the Order? Could he stall? And how much had these two overheard? Had his Muffliato been sufficient to keep them in the dark? His mother had said not to use any spells. The two must have found them by that one, but if he and Hermione were lucky, they'd not been able to hear what had been said until they'd pierced the border of his spell. "I think it'd be really foolish of me to go anywhere," he said now.

"Well, we _could_ just blow this entire building to smithereens," said a new voice and Cedric jerked his head around to find Lucius Malfoy standing behind him, Dolohov at Malfoy's shoulder, smile positively evil as he considered Hermione. Cedric was certain he recognized her.

"You wouldn't do that," he said to Malfoy.

"Oh, but why not?" Malfoy reached past him to yank the camera bag out of Hermione's hands, tossing it to the squat wizards. "Check that for their wands." Then he said to Cedric, "Really, Mr. Diggory, we'd all be long gone before the final explosions finished. Do you really think the foolish Muggle _police_ could catch us?"

Cedric knew his mouth was hanging open. "Blowing up the entire hall would hardly be keeping the Statute!"

"Why would the Dark Lord care about that?" Dolohov asked as Cedric noted the two searchers had found their Transfigured wands, changing them back and handing them to Dolohov, who secreted them in his cape. "That Statute of Secrecy is long overdue for a revision. We've let these Muggles muddle along like insects with their pathetic, pointless lives while we - their natural masters - take precautions so we don't startle or _frighten_ them. That's just one of many things the Dark Lord will change."

"So," Malfoy added, voice almost cheerful, "it really won't matter to us if we get to blow up a couple of thousand Muggles in order to get you two. But - your choice."

"To get us?" Hermione blurted. "I thought you were here for Tony Blair?"

Sneering, Malfoy made a random motion with his hand, sealing Hermione's mouth closed. Seeing that, Cedric surged toward him, but stopped when he saw the woman Death Eater's wand touch Hermione's throat. Hermione was struggling to breathe, terror clear in her eyes. Why weren't any of the Muggles around them paying attention? But when he looked, Cedric could spot the faint shimmer of a Disillusionment charm encircling their group beneath the stairwell. "Now, now," Malfoy said. "Mr. Diggory, I don't think you want me to do anything more permanent to your, ah, paramour. Although I must say, the sealed mouth is a definite improvement. She always did talk too much."

Cedric bit his tongue and just glared back.

"I see that _you_, at least, know when to keep your mouth shut. How like your mother you look - the Malfoy genes breed true. It's a pity she had to sully them with that impure oaf from Cornwall. Nonetheless, the Muggle taint is far enough back it could be overlooked. There are others like you in the Dark Lord's lesser service, scions of old lines with a little unfortunate mud in their veins. Another generation or two and any effect will be erased. You _could_ have made a good marriage, but . . . " Malfoy's faint smile was vicious. "You'll make a better example. Your perverted interests and your whore of a Muggle-born mistress, your awkward, crippled movements. You _are_ the face of current Magical degeneracy, Mr. Diggory.

"I find it amusing the Mudblood thought we came here for the Muggle Blair, that puffed-up parrot. We've already got him well under observation, and under control, too, if need be. No, we came tonight to collect _you_, Diggory. We couldn't believe our luck, that the Minister would send you out without any guard except, well . . . a schoolchild hardly counts as a guard, especially not a Mudblood."

Cedric risked a glance at Hermione again. She was no longer struggling to breathe, but the squat female Death Eater had her by one arm, wand nonchalantly aimed at her neck. Her face was wet with tears, smearing her makeup. Just seeing that broke his heart, but when he stepped towards her, Dolohov slipped a leg between, stopping him. "Ah, ah," he said.

"What do you _want_ with us?" Cedric demanded.

"From you, we want a statement that you've seen the error of your ways. After spending so much time studying Muggles, you realise just how worthless they really are and how desperately they need to be controlled for their own good. That would be extremely convincing - and thus, useful to the Dark Lord - coming from an honest Hufflepuff, a Triwizard Champion, and a young man everyone knows to have had extensive contacts with Muggles. If you give us this, we'll let Miss Granger live . . . not in the country, of course. We'll send her to Canada, perhaps, or better yet, to Australia. A good long way from here. Oh, and we'll be certain she's stripped of her wand and had all magical ability she's stolen burned out of her, as well as her memories."

Hermione was frantically shaking her head as she held Cedric's eyes. "Of course," Dolohov added, "at least she'll be _alive_. If you don't cooperate, we'll kill you - not pleasantly - and keep the girl to use against Potter. If that idiot boy ignored all sense last year just because he _thought_ we had Sirius Black, imagine what he'd do if he were quite certain we had Hermione Granger?"

"You are a sick bastard," Cedric hissed.

"No, merely practical," Malfoy replied, then moved in close so that his face was mere inches from Cedric's. "If I had my druthers, I'd have you _exterminated_, your taint on the family name erased. But the Dark Lord thinks you of more worth left alive."

For a long moment, Cedric couldn't speak. He'd never in his life felt so cornered, even the previous year when hauled before Umbridge and Fudge. That had been only their reputations on the line, not their very lives. The world had grown infinitely more dangerous since. "Hurry up, boy!" said one of the two Death Eaters whose name he didn't know. "We haven't got all day!"

"Patience, Alecto," Malfoy cautioned. "Give Mr. Diggory a moment to think it over . . . _all_ the consequences of his refusal. I'm sure the prospect of his own death is frightening, but the boy is almost brave enough - and rash enough - for a Gryffindor. It's the Mudblood'scaptivity he needs to consider - all the entertainment a Mudblood could provide until we'd finished with her."

Cedric was certain his face had gone as white as a sheet. He could imagine only too well what they'd do to Hermione. She was still shaking her head at him, tears streaming, but he could also see that she was trembling from pure fear. She wanted to be brave, she wanted to do the right thing, but the prospect of that sort of pain and torture terrified her. Her fear was a sword in his gut and he _couldn't_ condemn her to that. Even if he died first and didn't have to witness it, he wasn't capable of surrendering her to what he knew they'd do.

"If I promise to make this statement, will you make an Unbreakable Vow right here, right now, that you'll take Hermione immediately to the airport, give her a passport and all the money in my wallet" - it wasn't much, he knew, but it would keep her from being completely penniless - "put her on a plane to Australia and Obliviate her? Tonight - no waiting."

"How do we know you'll fill your end - "

"It's an Unbreakable Vow!" Cedric snapped.

Dolohov was smiling, although Malfoy looked dubious, as if he suspected Cedric of having some trick up his sleeve. But Cedric didn't. Here, now, he was completely helpless, and he'd do anything at all, cover his good name in complete offal, if it meant Hermione would live.

They were right. He wasn't a Gryffindor. He wasn't brave to the end. And he wasn't a Slytherin, either, or a Ravenclaw, clever enough to find a way out of this. He was a Hufflepuff, and where he loved, he loved completely and forever, for good - and ill. For Hermione, he'd sacrifice himself without a second thought. And in a way, he would be. He'd make their statement, then find enough poison to kill himself quickly. He wouldn't be able to live with the lie. But he also couldn't let her suffer. Honour mattered. But nothing mattered more to him than love.

"Oh, very well," Malfoy said finally, removing his glove to make the vow. "Dolohov, is the Disillusionment charm - "

"It's working fine. Stop doubting me. Let's get on with this so we can go. Being among all these Muggles in these half-Muggle clothes is nauseating."

Hermione began to thrash in the grip of the other two, and even if her lips were sealed, she could still make frightening squeals of protest. Cedric gave her a sad smile and shook his own head. "I love you too much," he said. He felt . . . dirty. He hadn't even made the vow yet, but he already felt the shame of it.

He held out his hand to grasp Malfoy's.


	15. A Matter of Courage, and final notes

Before Cedric's hand could close with Lucius Malfoy's, six figures stepped through the fuzzy circle of Disillusionment and flashs of red and white blasted wands from hands, freezing all four Death Eaters where they stood.

And that fast, it was over.

Kingsley, Bill, Scott, and Arthur stepped forward to secure the four Deatheaters while Tonks unsealed Hermione's mouth. Hermione dragged in air in great gulps, then said, "Our wands are in Dolohov's cape pocket."

Cedric felt incapable of speech, still paralyzed by the magnitude of what he'd almost done, almost been forced to do. His mother peered into his face. "You're in shock," she said without other greeting. "Wait a moment." And she stepped back through the disillusionment screen, returning immediately with a bemused-looking Helen Granger.

"You just disappeared!" Helen was saying.

"Disillusionment," Lucy explained. "Helen, ring up Charles and tell him to drive home. We need to take the kids to St. Mungo's to have them looked at. I'll have Tonks side-along you, and I'll take Cedric. He's in shock; I don't trust him to Apparate himself." She glanced at Hermione.

"I'm okay; I'll manage. I got my license two weeks ago."

"I can Apparate myself too," Cedric muttered, accepting his wand from Scott. "I'm a big boy."

"Right now," Scott said, "I'd trust Hermione to Apparate more safely than I trust you to."

"Gee, thanks," Cedric snarled.

"I just call 'em, like I see 'em, me."

Dizzy, Cedric swayed on his crutches but before he could argue further, his mother gripped him around the shoulders. He felt the familiar squeeze of Apparation and they popped out in the alley beside St. Mungo's. She knocked on the A&E - accident and emergency - entrance door. Behind them came two more pops as Hermione appeared, then Tonks with Helen, who looked both thoroughly shocked and slightly green. Hermione immediately grabbed her mom. "Are you all right?"

"Oh, my! You travel like that all time? Beam me up, Scotty! No wonder Dr. McCoy hated the transporter."

Hermione was laughing, but Cedric didn't understand the reference. He'd ask later. A mediwitch was letting them into the hospital. She took one look at him and steered him right into a little room not far from the admissions desk used for spell triage before patients were assigned a floor and ward. "You need to lie down." She undid his leg braces and (to his embarrassment) unbuttoned the top of his trousers too. "We don't want anything constricting your blood flow," she explained as she flung blankets over him, then put a pillow under his feet.

"I'm okay!" he protested.

"No, you're not. What spell were you hit by?"

"Nothing! Somebody needs to look over Hermione - my girlfriend. She came in with me. They sealed her mouth so she could breathe only through her nose."

"She'll be examined too, I promise. But your body is clearly reacting to something. Are you sure you weren't hit by a spell?"

"No! No spells."

_I just nearly sold my honor for my girlfriend's life, is all. _ But he didn't say that. Shame sealed his lips.

"Well, it's probably just shock, so let me get a Pepper-Up Potion. That should take care of it quickly enough."

Cedric's mother had entered the small cubicle and now halted the mediwitch. "He and his girlfriend were captured by Death Eaters. Please be certain to run a diagnostic."

"Someone will," the woman said before slipping out.

Cedric was beginning to feel better, not so dizzy and nauseous. He was afraid to look at his mother, but he still had questions. "How did you find us? And know we were in danger?"

"Hermione rang her mother back. It seems that Lucius and Antonin took your wands, but failed to recognize the significance of a bit of Muggle technology. They left her with the mobile phone. She managed to open a . . . a 'line,' Helen called it. We could hear what was going on, so we knew you'd been captured."

They could hear what was going on? So all of them had heard his deal with Lucius Malfoy? They all knew his shame?

His mother was still speaking. "When we reached the hall, Bill was able to locate the disturbance caused by the Disillusionment spell - he's very handy to have about, I must say - so we surrounded you and timed our moment of attack to when they were most distracted. You did a good job of stalling them."

He opened his mouth to say he hadn't been stalling, he'd been serious, then shut it again. He could let her continue to think it had been a sham. She didn't even question whether he'd intended to go through with the vow because, of course, _she_ would've been thinking five steps ahead and was confident others would too.

She Conjured a chair for herself and sat down beside his bed as the mediwitch hustled back in, vial of potion in hand. "Of course, this alters a great deal regarding your status," his mother said even as the mediwitch spoke, "That should do it for you, Mr. Diggory, but one of the Healers will come by to run a precautionary diagnostic, just to be on the safe side. No sense taking chances when Death Eaters are involved." She gave a delicate shudder and handed over the vial, then helped him sit up enough to swallow it.

Wincing as the familiar sense of hot air rushed through him, out his ears and mouth, he did have to admit he felt more clear-headed. The mediwitch helped him lie back down, then disappeared. To his mother, he said, "What are you talking about, 'this alters my status'? We already knew I was a likely target, if hardly Public Enemy Number One for Voldemort."

She glared at him. "Cedric, you do realize the Dark Lord sent two of his highest ranking Death Eaters to kidnap you? No, you may not be considered as dangerous to him as Harry, or Albus - but I dare say you've joined the ranks of his primary targets."

"Everybody's a target, mum!"

"No, they're not."

"I'm not going to quit my job," Cedric warned.

"Nor did I suggest you should," his mother replied with smooth aplomb. "But while the Ministry has been advising for some time that no one travel anywhere alone, it's become especially important for you. Bill will strengthen the protections on your flat, I'm sure, but when he and Fleur move out after the wedding, you shan't be able to keep that flat alone. You must consider a roommate with experience at defensive spell-casting - or move back home."

"I need the electricity in my flat!" Cedric protested. "I'm not moving out!"

"I'll move in with him," said a new voice at the door.

Cedric looked up to find Scott standing there. He looked grim. "I thought you went with Shacklebolt?"

"I did, but only as far as the Ministry atrium. Then Robards took over. I'm just a _trainee_."

"Patience," Tonks said behind him, patting his shoulder as she looked in the room past his arm. "And at least we got four of them back into custody."

"For how long?" Cedric's mother asked her. "They were all supposed to have been _in_ custody already."

"Well, the Carrows weren't, but Dolohov and Malfoy, yes." Tonks flicked her wand to Muffle their conversation. "Shacklebolt told us last week that he suspected a partial breakout at Azkaban, which Scrimgeour kept mum to reduce panic. Since we picked up both Malfoy and Dolohov, I think that's proof enough Kingsley was right. But since this happened in the Muggle world, I don't expect The Minister will admit to their _re_capture."

"Who else got away in the prison break do you think?" Cedric asked.

"We've no way of knowing since, officially, they're all still in prison." She made a face.

They stopped talking as a Healer entered - none other than Healer Grant of the floppy blond hair, in fact. "You just can't stay out of trouble, can you?" Grant asked, albeit without much heat. "Well, let's take a look at things, be certain it really was just shock."

"They didn't cast any spells," Cedric told him.

"Not that you _heard_," Grant pointed out. Hermione had slipped in behind him, although her mother stayed at the door with Scott and Tonks. Even so, four people in the room made the triage cubicle quite crowded. Grant turned to them all. "Out!" he said with a surprising amount of authority. Typically, he came across as the easy-going one when Cedric met with him and Healer Groat, but now he expelled everybody and shut the door, then turned back to Cedric, gliding his wand all along Cedric's body. After a moment, he said, "You look all right. No hidden curses that I can detect."

"I told you - "

"- _but_," Grant interrupted, "shock might cause the old curse to flare up, so I'm giving you a couple bottles of the higher strength Abdoleo. Take one in place of your regular pain medication tonight, and keep the other in case you need it. Any attacks since December?"

"None."

"Good. But that means it's probably getting to be time for one, so I wouldn't be surprised if this brings it on due to stress to the nervous system."

"Lovely," Cedric muttered, letting Grant help him to sit and put back on his leg braces.

Grant handed him the dark blue bottles, then his crutches. "Go home, get some rest, take the potions - and ditch the traveling circus with you. I'm sure they mean well, but right now, your _Healer_ prescribes peace and quiet or you'll have a really nasty attack."

"Tell that to the Aurors."

"I will." He opened the door and shadowed Cedric out. "Take him home," he said to Cedric's mother. "He needs to sleep - and not be disturbed. No debriefings until he's had some rest."

"But - "Tonks said.

"No buts!" Grant told her. He gestured to Hermione. "Interview her, but leave Cedric alone until he's slept. If he hasn't had another attack, then you can interview him."

Tonks - and Scott - appeared annoyed, but Cedric's mother only nodded, as did Helen. "We'll see to it," his mother said. Grant nodded and headed off, leaving them to find their way out.

Hermione had come over to wrap arms around his waist. She still wore the beautiful, beaded dress that had given him naughty thoughts earlier, but now, he couldn't summon the interest, which was pathetic. He wanted comfort not sex, yet felt too humiliated to seek it from Hermione, who'd witnessed the collapse of his courage. How long until everyone knew he hadn't been stalling. He'd been willing to surrender?

Hermione was looking up at him, and he felt her palm on his cheek, angling his face down. 'I'm taking you home,' she mouthed. He started to shake his head, but she ignored that, glancing at Tonks - "I can Floo you in a little while, or Auror Shacklebolt can come to take my statement."

Tonks sighed, but nodded. "Fair enough," she said. "An hour or two won't make much difference."

Hermione's mother and Cedric's seemed half-prepared to intervene, then Cedric could see both draw back, as if realizing their children weren't children. Helen Granger turned to Lucy. "Come back to our place. I'm sure Charles wants to hear what happened." Then Helen turned to Hermione. "Ring us as soon as you get to the flat."

"I will," Hermione said.

"Tonks and me - we'll escort them," Scott told both mothers. "See them right to the door."

"Thank you," Cedric's mother told him. "And you were serious earlier? About moving in - ?"

"Absolutely. I've got an efficiency in Diagon Alley right now. It'll be no trouble to give notice."

"Scott's going to move in with you?" Hermione asked.

Cedric resisted making a face at being protected; he was starting to understand Harry's frustration over such things. "Yes, but not till Bill and Fleur marry and move out." Truth was, he'd need a roommate for purely financial reasons, and it wasn't as if he hadn't shared space with Scott for seven years. It was better than moving back home.

"We'll have a grand time!" Scott said, slapping his shoulder. "Girls! Beer! Quidditch on the Wireless! Muggle pizza!"

Tonks elbowed him. "Auror exams, Cedric's job . . . not to mention his girl."

Cedric didn't miss that she hadn't named herself _Scott's_ girl, even if - effectively - she was. "Ach!" Scott protested. "You're no fun! And you can come over for the pizza and Quidditch."

"Wouldn't miss it, Casanova," Tonks told him, slapping his arse, to his surprise and Hermione's amusement.

They'd made their way out into the alley. Cedric watched as his mother gripped Helen Granger - who squeezed her eyes shut in wary anticipation - then Apparated them both away. He eyed the other three. "I don't need to be side-alonged again," he told them, Disapparating before they could argue, and reappearing behind the white trellis in the back garden. Three pops followed in quick succession.

"You could warn a person!" Scott scolded.

"I did." Well, by implication anyway. Scott and Tonks frowned. "Okay," Cedric said, "We're here. You can go."

"We'll see you into the house," Tonks said, following Cedric and Hermione right up to the back door. Waiting inside, Fleur threw hers arms around Cedric as soon as the door opened.

"You are all right!" she shouted, then moved to hug Hermione too, rather to Hermione's surprise, it looked like.

"Bill didn't send you a message?" Hermione asked.

"Well, yes, but he said you were going to hospital!"

"Just a routine check," Cedric said, glancing around to see Tonks finger wave as Scott drew her away. "I'll talk to one of you and give a statement in the morning," Cedric promised them.

"And I'll Floo later," Hermione called before Fleur closed the door and set the special seals that Bill had put on the door.

"There was news on the Wireless!" Fleur said. "I think the Minister is very glad to be able to claim a victory, even if the attack was unexpected. They said four Death Eaters had been taken into custody!"

"Well, two were taken into custody _again_," Hermione said, sinking into a chair at the kitchen table. "What he didn't say was that Lucius Malfoy and Antonin Dolohov had escaped from custody in the first place."

"Oh, no!" Fleur said. She went over to start a pot of water for tea while Hermione related what had happened. Too tired, Cedric just seated himself in the other chair. He noted that Hermione skimmed over his offer to Malfoy and he stared at her - hard - but she wouldn't look at him. Was that the way it'd be? He could fuck up, show his yellow belly, and she'd just ignore it?

Rising again, he grabbed his crutches and muttered about needing to use the loo since he hadn't in hours. It was honest enough - he did need to empty his bladder - but he also wanted a moment to himself.

He took his time on the toilet. It seemed an appropriate place to ponder his shame. In a matter of moments he'd seen what he was really made of, and it wasn't pretty. They said every man had a price. The Death Eaters now knew his; he was compromised, even if not literally so. And yet, if he'd been willing to maintain principles at the cost of another human being's torture - anyone's, not just Hermione's - what sort of heartless monster would that make him?

Nonetheless, fear had motivated his choice back at the festival hall: fear for Hermione, and a little for himself. When it came down to it, he wasn't really brave. He'd seen that at the end of his sixth year in the maze. Fear had become aggression against his rival, a boy three years younger than him. Fear had sent him back with the portkey too, not just common sense. He'd brought help, and he'd returned, but he hadn't stood his ground the first time. And if he had stood up to Umbridge and Fudge, taking the fall for his mistake and sparing Hermione, it hadn't really cost him anything. Even at the time, deep down, he'd known it. Expulsion would hardly have been the end of the line for a former Headboy and Triwizard Champion, especially not given the circumstances. He hadn't been caught doing something that called his _honor _into question. Most people knew he'd been canoodling his long-time girlfriend. It was a black mark on paper only - as Scrimgeour's eagerness to add him to the Minister's personal staff had made clear.

No, Cedric's cowardice was reserved for things that mattered, unfortunately, like life and death. Bowed over, head in hands, he didn't move until he heard a tap on the door. "Did you drown?" Hermione asked on the other side.

"I wish," he muttered back, then said more loudly, "No. Be out in a moment."

He cleaned up and washed his hands before opening the door. Hermione was still on the other side, waiting. Her face appeared concerned. "I should give you your potion and put you to bed, but you have a guest. I reckoned I shouldn't turn him away."

Cedric had a hunch who'd come even before Hermione led him into the living room where Dumbledore was having tea with Fleur. "Cedric," Dumbledore said, nodding to him, "I do understand your Healer wanted you to rest immediately, but I wondered if I might have a word first? I promise not to keep you long, nor stress your nerves as Auror Robards might." He winked.

"Of course, professor." Cedric settled into a chair near the couch where Dumbledore sat.

Dumbledore had turned to Fleur. "It was lovely to see you again, Fleur. And Hermione, I think that, under the circumstances - and before you ask -" his grin was impish, "it would be a good idea for you to spend the weekend here. I trust, given your reputation, that completing your homework won't be an issue, so we'll expect you back at the castle Sunday afternoon. You can use Professor McGonagall's fireplace."

"Thank you, professor," Hermione said, blushing.

"Why don't you help Fleur in the kitchen?" Dumbledore suggested - a clear dismissal and hint that he wanted to talk to Cedric privately. With a glance at each other, both young women disappeared back down the hall towards the kitchen-dining area at the rear of the flat. It was far enough away that whatever Dumbledore said to Cedric couldn't be overheard.

Setting aside his teacup, Dumbledore leaned forward and studied Cedric's face. Cedric had a hard time meeting his eyes. "There is no shame in love, Cedric," Dumbledore said. "Ironically, Harry and I just had this conversation - the power of love. Voldemort tries to use it against his enemies, but he doesn't truly understand it."

"I was going to - "

"Of course you were," Dumbledore said, cutting him off. "You were backed into a corner. You might, perhaps, learn from the situation that your fellows in the Order can be counted on more than you realized, but whatever your desperation, you did effectively stall Lucius long enough for help to reach you. Don't discount that."

"Harry would have figured out a way - "

"_Harry_ wasn't there. You were. We're not discussing Mr. Potter. We're discussing you. Each individual brings his own gifts and talents to the table. Yours aren't the same as Harry's. That is a good thing - as we saw last year. Had it been only Harry left to defy Madam Umbridge, I'm not sure things would have gone quite as well. Likewise, if it had been only you, Harry's fighting force might never have been created. Learn to rely on the strengths of others - but don't diminish your own."

"I wasn't brave," Cedric whispered, cut by Dumbledore's words so that the poison leaked out.

"Bravery is sometimes foolish. You weren't a coward, either, Cedric. The hat saw truly when it placed you in Hufflepuff. You are steadfast in your loyalty. Yes, perhaps sometimes you would do well to trust yourself a little more, put yourself forward without fear of arrogance. There is a difference between confidence and boasting, yet your very humility is part of why others _do_ trust you, and you don't let them down. So no, you didn't respond the way Harry might have, nor the way your mother might have" - Dumbledore must have plucked that out of Cedric's own mind - "you responded the way _Cedric_ would respond. And there is nothing wrong with that."

Dumbledore stood abruptly. "I wish I could stay longer, but I fear I must get back to the school. Get some rest, Cedric."

Cedric stood as well, trusting his weight to one crutch in order to offer the headmaster his hand. "Thank you for coming at all. You didn't have to, sir, but I appreciate it."

"Harry needs his paladin - one not incapacitated by guilt." Dumbledore winked as he shook Cedric's hand with his good one, then took his cloak from the front rack and swung it around himself as Cedric moved to see him out. "No, don't trouble yourself. I believe the soon-to-be Mrs. Weasley may have another muffin in the kitchen for me if I take the back door, and Miss Granger has been haunting the end of the hallway so that she can come and tuck you in. Good night, Cedric." He started to leave, then paused and looked back. "Oh, tell Miss Granger that you have my permission for her to explain what Harry and I learned from Professor Slughorn's memory - but it is something that you must keep in the absolute strictest confidence. I trust your discretion." Dumbledore's blue eyes were very serious. Cedric only nodded.

A few seconds later, Hermione appeared in the living room, indigo bottle of Abdoleo in her hand. "Bed," she said as if he were an errant three-year-old. When they married (to his mind, there was no 'if'), he knew which of them would be the disciplinarian. Obediently he headed for his room and she followed, handing over the bottle when he'd reached his bed and sat down.

"Dumbledore said you can tell me whatever Harry found in that memory of Slughorn's."

"I heard. Drink the potion, Cedric. I'll tell you tomorrow."

"How much else did you hear?"

She paused, then admitted, "Some of it. He's right, you know. You're not Harry, and I don't want you to be."

"I was going to - "

"I know," she cut him off. "And I can't say - if our positions had been reversed - that I wouldn't have done the same thing. And to be honest, so would Harry, if pushed to the wall. Look what he did last year to save Sirius and he didn't even know for sure that Vol-Voldemort had him. We're not professional Aurors who signed on for this, and it's easier to sacrifice ourselves than somebody we love. And" - she took a breath, then blurted out - "if you're ashamed of offering that vow, then . . . then I'm ashamed that I'm, ah, relieved you were going to." She hung her head and her voice broke. "See? I'm not brave either. I wouldn't have blamed you if you hadn't; I didn't want you to compromise yourself. But I'm . . . not good with pain. I'm not as brave as you think I am, Cedric."

Her words shocked him with their raw honesty. Reaching out, he grabbed her hand and pulled her to him, holding her between his knees. "Thank you," was all he said, laying his head against her chest. He could have said a lot more, but those two words encompassed everything, really.

* * *

><p>Hermione should have known that after everything they'd been through, Cedric would suffer an attack - and he did. By dawn, and despite the stronger medication, he was twisting on his sheets, moaning in pain. She gave him the next dose of the stronger Abdoleo and Flooed Healer Grant to ask for a third. She'd spoken to Tonks the night before, giving her version of events, but when Tonks came by at noon to interview Cedric, he was drugged into unconsciousness.<p>

While she waited for Cedric to wake, Hermione mulled over the previous night's events. She'd been in life-and-death situations before with Harry and Ron - and was certain she'd be in them again - but she'd got used to escaping by the skin of their teeth. She'd almost come to expect it, seeing Harry as some sort of rabbit's foot. After all, he was the boy who lived . . . and lived, and lived, in the face of impossible odds. Yet if she'd escaped yet again last night, the fact Harry _hadn't_ been involved had brought her face-to-face with the fact a time might come when she wouldn't escape. After all, luck did run out.

Yet she found herself much more frightened by the prospect of losing Cedric than of losing her own life. She didn't know what she'd do without him, and if she'd had any doubts that she really did love him, last night had extinguished them.

He slept through all of Friday, not waking until Saturday, mid-morning. He was weak, and still depressed, but in a better frame of mind, she thought. They discussed horcruxes. He knew no more about the matter than she had, although he thought his mother might recognize the term. Unfortunately, Dumbledore had forbid the trio to discuss it with anyone else besides Cedric. "It's not a matter of trust," she said, when Cedric somewhat indignantly suggested that Dumbledore still didn't fully trust Slytherins, even his mother. "I think it's a matter of fear that an older Order member might fall into Voldemort's hands and he'd use his powers as a Legilimens to take out of their minds what we know or don't know about the Horcruxes."

"Why couldn't he use the same method on you, me, Harry, or Ron if we were captured?"

"Because Voldemort doesn't believe we _would_ know. He doesn't give us that much credit. We're just children, after all." At Cedric's somewhat wounded expression, she said, "I'm sorry, love. I know you're an adult now, but - "

He waved away her apologies. "No, you're right. To him, I'm still unimportant. He sent his Death Eaters after me not because he sees me as a threat, but because I embody everything he hates." His face was grim. "He's very blinkered, though. He only grants respect - and fear - to those he considers dangerous by his criteria."

Hermione nodded. "And that's how we'll defeat him in the end. He overlooks people and things he doesn't believe matter."

"Like Lucius overlooked your cell phone because Muggle technology doesn't count for much with them. That was very clever, by the way," he told her, making her grin and blush. "But I think it's also why he - or anybody with attitudes like his - are doomed to fail. They get so drunk on power, they assume they're unstoppable and the minute that happens, they become stoppable. A little fear is a good thing." Sighing, he leaned his head back against the rear of the chair where he was sitting in the living room. "I should have remembered that Thursday night. I'm not sure I was cocky so much as . . . underestimating things. Moody's 'Be ever vigilant' is looking more sensible by the day."

Hermione could only agree. "What's the old saying? It's only paranoia if they're _not_ out to get you."

That made him smile, but he was also looking tired again so Hermione retreated to the kitchen where she could study, and let him nap. A little to her surprise, Fleur came in and asked if she could help. "Er, well, ah - how much do you know about Runes?"

"Oh!" Fleur said, looking delighted. "Quite a lot! It is translation that interests me most! That is how I met Bill - or at least, it is how we got to know each other at the bank. We worked on translations together!"

Hermione was somewhat skeptical of Fleur's claims . . . until they started translating. Then her respect for the Fleur skyrocketed. Bill's fiancee wasn't just tolerable at Runes, she was as skilled in that field as Hermione was becoming at Arithmancy, and Hermione got a very profitable two hours of work out of it. Then the two of them prepared dinner together. Perhaps Hermione had misjudged Fleur a bit; Bill had seen more in her than her Veela charms.

They'd almost finished slicing vegetable for a casserole when Bill's perimeter alarms went off with a low buzzing all through the house. It meant an unknown witch or wizard had approached, but a low buzz indicated only the presence of magic in a person not already known to the wards. If that person bore a miasma of Dark Magic, the alarms would be _blaring_ not buzzing, giving all of them time to Apparate to safety.

Hermione hurried down the hallway, Fleur behind her, even as Cedric was struggling up from his nap and onto his feet. All three had their wands out as a precaution when the front doorbell rang. It didn't seem like a Death Eater trick to ring the doorbell, but who knew? Hermione peeked out.

All she could see was a chest. A big chest. Then whoever it was stepped back and she was looking at one of the largest men she'd ever seen, not counting Hagrid. She didn't know what he was, except not British. "Uh. It's some guy. He's . . . big? I don't recognize him. Fleur?"

She let Fleur peek, but the other woman only shook her head. "I have never seen him before."

The doorbell rang again and whoever it was knocked too, clearly impatient. "Hey! Anybody at home in there?"

The accent was distinctly North American.

Behind Fleur and Hermione, Cedric made a shocked sound, then called back, "_Beindigain!" _The locks all unfastened with a swish of his hand and the door opened inward.

The man on the other side laughed. "_Misakakojiishag Ayaawag! Boozhoo!_"

Bemused, Hermione looked from him to Cedric, who was on his crutches and grinning as if Christmas had come early. The stranger breezed in, hugging Cedric with much back-slapping, half lifting him off the ground, heedless of his crutches. "Who is that?" Fleur whispered to Hermione.

"I have no earthly idea," Hermione replied. Although she might - just might - have an inkling.

"Put me down, you big oaf!" Cedric was saying - and it was really rather amusing to see him manhandled by someone taller than he was. Then, still looking wildly happy, he turned to Hermione and Fleur. "This is Jeff Whitecalf!"

"Who?" Hermione and Fleur said together.

"My friend Jeff. One of Ed Whitecalf's sons. Ed was the middle son of Leonard Whitecalf - the man who gave me that eagle feather, and changed my life. They're Lake Wabigoon Ojibway."

Hermione recognized the family name, certainly, and she'd seen pictures of Jeff too - but a fourteen-year-old Jeff with his arm around the shoulders of a twelve-year-old Cedric holding a basketball, both waving into a magical camera. He'd been a cute, skinny kid with crooked teeth, glasses and long black hair.

The only thing he still shared with that old picture was the long black hair. It easily reached the small of his back. Now, he topped Cedric by three or four inches, and probably outweighed him by four stone. His face showed the ravages of acne - not something wizards usually suffered - but his teeth were straight, if yellowed from coffee or tobacco, or both. He was dressed simply in denim and flannel, a baseball cap on his head.

"This is Hermione," Cedric told him, pointing to her and not adding anything else, which suggested Jeff already knew exactly who she was, then he indicated Fleur. "And that's Fleur Delacour, soon to be Weasley, Bill Weasley's fiancee and one of my roommates."

Jeff held out a hand to them both in turn and Hermione shook it. His palm was large, calloused, and warm, and if he suffered the usual visceral male reaction to Fleur, he didn't show it - which was very strange.

"Get your stuff! Come in!" Cedric said, pulling his wand to wave in Jeff's duffle bag. Jeff stepped back through the door to grab a big stick he'd leaned against the outside wall - or not a stick, a staff. It was curved at the top with various feathers, fur, and other things tied to it. If the rest of him gave no hint of his origins, the staff was clearly another matter.

"How did you get that through customs?" Hermione asked.

"I have a special permit and letters from both my tribe and the Canadian government. It's a sacred object. I think it caused more trouble on the plane for trying to figure out where to put it - something like this can't be checked - than it caused in the customs line."

Fascinated, Hermione studied the staff that was taller than she was. The top curled into a loop decorated by some feathers and fur, and a piece of red, circular cloth like a banner strung tight with more feathers tied all along the outer length of the staff. The red cloth had been subdivided evenly by an X with each of the four sections painted a different color: white, black, red and yellow.

"May I . . . touch it?" Hermione asked.

Jeff elbowed Cedric. "She wants to touch it. Whaddaya think?"

"I think your mind is perpetually in the gutter," Cedric shot back.

Hermione could feel her cheeks flame even as Fleur let out a delighted peal of laughter and closed the front door. "I meant the stick," Hermione clarified.

"She meant _the stick_," Jeff echoed with a mock-serious face.

"Oh, for heaven's sake!" Hermione exclaimed as Fleur and Cedric both laughed too hard to comment. "You" - Hermione pointed at Jeff - "are cheeky! You don't even know me!"

He was chuckling now too. "Oh, I know you. I've never _met_ you, but I know you pretty damn well from this dude's letters." Abruptly, he grew serious. "But yes, you can touch the staff, just show it respect. I was given this to carry by my people. My dad presented it to me. Only a vet is allowed to carry an eagle staff. I served two years in Bosnia-Herzogovenia as a medic with the CF - Canadian Force - for UN peace-keeping. I have an otter skin wrapped around the top of the pole" - he pointed to it - "to indicate my service was in Medicine."

He looked at Cedric and there was no humor at all in his face now. "I carry this for my people, brother. They've sent me with their blessing to fight for you. _Mi-geing!_"

"_Mi-geing,_" Cedric echoed. His eyes were suspiciously red, which shocked Hermione a little. He never cried, or almost never.

Abruptly, Jeff gave that wild grin again. "So let's see what your Foldemort makes of the Bear's Child."

"Voldemort," Cedric corrected, but the corner of his mouth twisted up. "The real question is, did you get permission to teach us your Medicine?"

"Yeah," Jeff said. "Yeah, I did. At least some of it."

Cedric dropped his head, as if in relief. He was smiling. "We should Floo Tonks and Kingsley. They'll want to meet you. They probably want to talk to me too, about Thursday night."

"What happened Thursday night?" Jeff asked, frowning.

"I'll explain in a minute." He turned to Fleur. "Can we get some spare sheets on the couch for Jeff?"

Fleur was looking Jeff up and down. "You are assuming he will _fit_ on the couch, Cederic."

"I'm used to sleeping with my feet off the end," Jeff told her.

An hour and a half later, Hermione, Cedric, and Fleur, plus their unexpected guest, were seated at an enlarged version of their eat-in kitchen table, along with Tonks, Moody, Shacklebolt, and Remus Lupin. Scott was apparently in classes and couldn't wiggle out of them. Bill came home only a little after to join the soiree.

Jeff's presence was welcome more for its symbolism and the knowledge he brought than because he represented the Canadian cavalry riding over the hill. Their brother wizards across the Pond hadn't forgotten them, even if it wasn't the official Canadian Ministry of Magic. Jeff could still share wards, disillusionment spells, and healing medicine the Death Eaters would never have seen before. And if his knowledge didn't lean much to offensive spells, a good defense still saved lives, and Hermione was all for that.

She'd also have loved to be a fly on the wall Monday morning when Cedric took Jeff Whitecalf - eagle staff and all - to meet the Minister of Magic. Unfortunately, she was due back at Hogwarts on Sunday, and no sooner was she back than she was drawn back into Harry's paranoia about Draco Malfoy, and whatever Harry thought Malfoy might be plotting.

* * *

><p><strong>Notes:<strong> Regarding Jeff's eagle staff - you'll often see these in Grand Entry processions and/or during the Veterans Honoring Song at pow-wows. Only a veteran is supposed to carry one, and it's a great honor to be asked. The Warrior Tradition is alive and well in Indian Country. They come in a wide variety, and each is unique. FF-net won't permit links, but if curious, you can Google "eagle staff" and "Native American" to see images. Incidently, a man OR woman can carry one, there are no gender restrictions as long as the person is a vet. Some traditions get a little squirrelly about it, but many don't. Eagle staves require special handling both because of their unique religious status but also because ceremonial eagle feathers aren't supposed to touch the ground. That's what Jeff means by having to carry it on the plane, and having difficulty stowing it. In any case, the staff is not only to be carried by a warrior, but it's also considered a "flag" for the people.

* * *

><p><strong>Dulce's intended ending:<strong>

As I've explained in a variety of places, I've retiring from fanfic, although my fiction won't disappear from all archives. A number of reasons led to a decision to bow out, at least for now, and aren't pertinent here. Dulce was all but complete, and certainly all the truly original (non-canon) matters have been covered and resolved/(introduced). The last two chapters would simply have detailed the battle at Hogwarts from the point of view of Hermione, as well as Dumbledore's funeral through Cedric's eyes. Essential events wouldn't have changed - Dumbledore still dies, Snape still kills him, and Draco Malfoy still escapes with Snape. Harry still has the locket, which turns out to be a fake.

The only significant difference in this version is that Jeff (and Scott) will fight with the relief force of Aurors, and the Carrows wouldn't be present. Jeff has a unique ability. He's also a shape-changer, but out of a different tradition. He calls himself the "Bear's Child." When he transforms, he becomes a giant grizzly. His presence at the battle will alter the outcome with Bill. He takes on Greyback, preventing Bill from being mauled quite so badly. Bill is still scratched, mind, but not as much, and Greyback is seriously hurt, although he survives. Greyback's scratches have no effect on Jeff.

Also of note - unlike in the Battle at the Ministry - Cedric does _not _go with the Aurors to Hogwarts Castle. He waits. He's learned to recognize his realistic limits, and that means not trying to fight unless he has to.

Once upon a time, I had delusions (*grin*) of carrying the story all the way to the end of book 7, but that would require a time commitment that I just don't have. I'd wanted to show the war from the OTHER side ... those who (like Cedric) didn't go with the trio but had to watch and wait and wonder what Harry was up to. Was the Boy who Lived still alive? Cedric would become part of Lee and the Weasley twins' Underground Radio, so it would have shown a slightly different aspect of the war.

The biggest change I'd have introduced would simply be the knowledge brought by non-British wizards. While I understand JKR's choice to focus on _British_ magic, I've always wanted to give a sense of the _wider_ magical world - so there's India-Indian magic (thanks to the Patil twins' brother Anu), Romany (Gypsy) magic (via friends of Viktor), Native American magic (from Jeff), Jewish magic (remember little Rose Zeller?), and Chinese magic (thanks to Cho). It becomes a greater world endeavor, and at the end, new respect is forged between these different magical traditions.

The final battleat Hogwarts would have turned out much like it does in the books. The goal of this novel has always been "parallel canon" - to show events from a different prespective ... which in turn grants a different view of the same events. I've attempted to change very little. The only intended addition to the last book that would (of necessity) have been different from JKR's is the fate of Cedric's mother. Lucy Diggory would have been taken captive sometime during the purges (before the final battle but after Harry and company arrived at Malfoy Manor). There, she would have significant interaction with Narcissa Malfoy, which would help to explain Narcissa's assistance to Harry (beyond just sympathy and concern for Draco). In the end, however, Lucy would have been murdered by Voldemort. (Sorry, Lucy fans.) Lucy and Scott Summers have been my favorite original characters from this series, so it wasn't without due thought that I decided to kill her off. Also, yes, Scott and Tonks would eventually have formed a real relationship, which means no, Tonks did not marry Remus Lupin. Tonks would also survive the final battle to marry Scott. So a trade-off ... Tonks for Lucy.

After the war, Cedric will go on to become one of Shacklebolt's most trusted junior advisors, and eventually fulfills his wish to become the Ministry's ambassador to Canada _and_ to Canada's First Nations. Hermione will work for the Ministry forming more just legislation regarding the status of Magical Creatures. They have three children: Gwynn, Ian, and Isabelle. Gwynn becomes a Healer, but one with Muggle training in medical school as well as lessons from his Uncle Jeff in native healing (Jeff, who you met in this chapter). You can catch a little view of their future in "I Hope You Dance," if you've not read it already. (There's also a slightly naughty little piece called "Yellow Plastic," but it's rated quite _adult_.)

As I said at the outset, I've retired from fanfiction. But I do still read the reviews, even if I rarely respond.

**Thanks to my readers for coming along with me on this lengthy AU ride. It's been fun, letting Cedric survive and seeing how that might change things, while still keeping the plot (mostly) the same.**

**As my son would say ... "Peace out." :-)**


End file.
